The Adventures of the Five: The Beginning
by CuriousFlynn
Summary: Witness the origin of The Five. Abnormals all over London are loosing control of their powers. The chase for the culprit leads Helen all over London, and introduces her to the other four brilliant young people who will one day become The Five.


The Adventures of the Five

~*5*~

Soft sunlight filtered through the industrial smog and warmed the cobbles of Tungsten Street, Northwest London, England; 1859. In the second floor hallway of one of the beautiful Victorian houses that ran up and down the street, a seven-year-old girl with golden ringlets sat in a dusty beam of sunlight with her ear pressed to the door of her father's office. "Has the cough persisted for more than two weeks?" his muffled voice asked from the other side of the wall.

Gregory Magnus was a doctor, one of the most brilliant in the city, yet preferred to see patients in the privacy of his home. Listening in on his appointments had become somewhat of a hobby of Helen's. She liked to hear him at work, to hear about all of the illnesses that could plague people and the ways her father had for curing them.

Some of his remedies were truly fascinating - and unorthodox enough that more than once now she had overheard members of the medical board warning Gregory to behave himself. Even so, his patients never doubted returning to him.

Gregory was just about to reveal the diagnosis, (Helen guessed a bad cold, perhaps a mild chest infection), when Greta, the Magnus's housekeeper, barked, "Helen!" in a sharp whisper so the doctor wouldn't hear them.

Helen jumped to her feet, startled. She hadn't even heard the young woman coming up the stairs.

"Again?" the housekeeper hissed. She rushed over to straighten Helen's wrinkled skirts. "They'd have your head for something like that in court."

"Yes, ma'am," Helen nodded.

When she finished fussing with Helen's dress, Greta straightened and said, "Why don't you come down to the kitchen and help me get thing ready for the meeting tonight."

"Alright," said Helen. With a longing look at the office door, she let Greta take her hand and lead her downstairs.

The kitchen was small and stuffy. Heat from the brick oven made the April day feel like July. At first, Greta set Helen to work hanging cleaned copper utensils back on the rack above their heads, but, because although Helen was tall for her age, she kept having to drag a wooden box around with her to reach, they eventually switched. Helen got to kneed the scone dough instead, a task she much preferred.

Finally, the scones were shaped and baked, the tea brewed, and the glassware polished to a shine, and it was time for the meeting to start.

It took all of Helen's willpower to stay in the kitchen until all of the guests arrived. She kept pacing around the small room, every so often taking a peek out the door.

The house opened from the front stoop into a small entrance hall. Empty doorways branched off into the sitting room to the right and dining room to the left. Its oak stairs lead to the second floor. Straight ahead, the hall connected to another corridor accessing the kitchen, parlor and study. It was through the open sitting room that Helen watched the front door.

The Magnus home was constantly bustling with activity. Meetings and parties were not uncommon , but none quite compared to this - a group she had named The Minds.

The Minds consisted of Gregory and his closes friends, all of whom were renown scientists and scholars. The exact makeup of the group fluctuated, but Charles Darwin, Jules Verne, and Dmitri Mendeleev were among the regulars.

She made another pass by the door just in time to see her godfather, Louis Pasteur, handing his coat to Greta.

"Everyone's here; time for drinks," Greta said as she returned to the kitchen.

"I've got it!," said Helen, grabbing the tray before the housekeeper could stop her.

"Just don't spill," she said affectionately as Helen hurried out the door.

The young girl carefully balanced the tray on one hand as she knocked of the frame on the open parlor door. Gregory nodded. "You all remember my daughter Helen."

"Of course," said Mr. Verne warmly, "How are you my dear?"

"Excellent Sir, and yourself?" she answered while pouring him a cup of tea.

"Fine, indeed."

Helen made her way around the inside of their lopsided circle of chairs, offering tea and brandy. She reached the chair of a guest she did not recognize and paused in surprise. It was boy; a scrawny child barely older than she was. She raised and eyebrow at her father.

"Helen, this is Mister James Watson," Gregory introduced.

The boy barely nodded.

"He is here tonight for evaluation; his powers of observation are truly astounding" said Gregory.

"How about a demonstration for the lady?" Verne asked, "and do be gentle."

James straightened in his chair. "Very well." The room when silent and the boy studied her carefully. For a long moment only his hawk-like eyes moved.

Suddenly he said, "You are younger than me, and I am the only person in this room you aren't familiar with, although you have only met Mr. Mendeleev several times. You have an abnormally open relationship with your father. You worked with some sort of dough today while wearing and apron that was to big for you, you're not fond of the color of your dress and...would you turn around please?...you spent a good amount of time this morning sitting on the floor."

True on all counts.

Helen just looked at him. The older men, too, seemed a bit shocked.

James smiled a wide, proud grin.

And you sir are just a bit too big for your breeches, Helen thought irritably. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Watson."

She finished her rounds and put the tray down on an empty table to leave.

"Helen," Gregory called to stop her. "Wait a moment. Would you mind terribly staying so Mr. Watson has someone his own age.

"Certainly not!" she said, trying to hide her enthusiasm.

"Gregory is that proper?" Mr. Mendeleev asked indignantly through his thick Russian accent.

"What makes you think the boy needs that?" cried Pasteur.

"Gentlemen please," Gregory said, holding up a hand to silence them.

He turned straight towards James. "You are not the only one here with the ability to notice things others wish to keep hidden, young man."

James's face turned a lovely shade of red and Helen tried hard not to smile. Shows him.

Gregory patted a spot beside him and Helen hopped up on the couch.

"Shall we begin?" Gregory asked the circle.

Helen had never been sure what the Minds actually did. As it turned out, they talked. They went around the circle and shared their latest work, what they hoped would come of it and the problems they were having. They discussed the latest world news and scientific discoveries.

Long after Greta had come in with the scones (James could tell which ones Helen had shaped. She was irritated.), Helen still sat wide-eyed next to her father, listening intently to the discussion.

Many of the words the men used she wasn't familiar with: detailed body parts, chemistry terms and such. Still, the entire conversation fascinated her. It felt like listening to one of Mr. Verne's stories.

They talked long into the evening. Helen leaned up against her father's shoulder and slowly drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke, the candles around them had melted to stubs and the gentlemen were rising from their seats. Suddenly awake again, she jumped up to see them off. Mr. Verne had a hand on James's back and he marched the groggy boy out the door.

"I'm sorry you had to sit through that, Helen," said Gregory when all the guests had gone.

"It was marvelous." she said. "I want to be a scientist when I'm older - a doctor, like you."

Gregory chuckled. "Perhaps, darling, someday perhaps."

"Why not?"

"Helen, you know as well as anyone, there are some jobs for men and others for women. It happens that science is one of those fields reserved for men," Gregory explained gently.

"With all due respect, Father, that doesn't make sense." said Helen.

"And why not?" asked Gregory.

"Because science belongs to everyone. Am I not as affected by illness as you are?" she said. "Does gravity pull on those of a certain gender or race or age? Science is something that affects all of us and we should all have the chance to understand the world around us."

Gregory tilted his head and studied her for a moment. She though he might be angry with her, but after a moment her smiled, a peculiar, proud smile, and said, "Helen, the way in which you see the world is a gift. You must take care not to give that up."

"Yes, Father," she answered, not quite sure what he was talking about.

"Now," he continued in a much lighter tone, "how about a bedtime story?"

"Please!" she shouted happily.

"Go get dressed for bed," said Gregory. "I'll meet you upstairs."

When, Gregory knocked on his daughter's door, Helen was sitting upright against the headboard of her four-poster bed, combing her curls. Gregory pulled a chair up beside her.

"Which story tonight?" Helen asked eagerly, eyeing the piles of books overflowing from her small bookcase.

"Actually, I have a new book for you," said Gregory. He held up the warn leather volume he had had tucked under his arm. "If you'd like."

"Really?" she squealed. "What is it about?"

"We'll just have to see, won't we?" he said. He paused and looked thoughtfully at the cover, as if he couldn't decide if he should tell her.

He looked her in the eyes. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes, Father," she said. "You're being quite dramatic."

"I am, aren't I," Gregory said. "Very well then." He flipped through the heavy pages, being careful not to lose any of the scrapes of paper jutting out of the book. Helen thought it looked like a flat paper porcupine. He reached a satisfactory page and said, "Ah, here's a good one; a perfect place to start.

"Ambrose P. Bennett lived alone in a shabby little house in London. His friends called him the Professor, although he was not a professor at all. He was however a doctor, and his talents did not stop there. Ambrose was the world's foremost expert of everything strange, out of the ordinary, or, shall we say, Abnormal.

"For in the Professor's world, people were not always as they seamed. Many creatures lived in his London, beings that were like us, only they had very special abilities. Some people who could grow and shrink at will. Others could turn invisible or even fly. Of course not all these so-called Abnormals were

'human-like'. Some of the creatures in this world are more like animals. They look like cats or birds or insects. There are others that look like no known creatures at all. Clouds of dust with minds of their own, balls of fire with personality," Gregory explained excitedly.

"That's silly," Helen giggled.

"Far less than you'd think." Ambrose's world teemed with spirits and demons, gryphons and dragons, and any other creature you could imagine. They all kept themselves hidden from the normal world, because the people wouldn't understand them. And whenever one of these beings was in trouble, only Ambrose could help them.

"This particular adventure found Ambrose in the middle of the jungles of Ceylon. He had received an urgent message from the chief of a village buried deep in the forest. The village sat at the foot of a huge mesa, and the people there made their living collecting the nests of the cinnamon birds - enormous copper birds who make their nests out of cinnamon sticks.

"All of a sudden the birds had disappeared, and the spice traders were on their way. Ambrose journeyed to the village and was taken to the far side of the mountain, to a half-finished pagoda carved into the black stone. The intricate carvings made for an easy climb, but he had to travel alone because villagers were forbidden from entering the temple.

"The Professor reached the flat top of the mesa, and found a camp of poachers. They had all of the Cinnamon birds locked up in bamboo cages. Ambrose camped the night and when he awoke the next morning, he found the poachers preparing to move out. He had to act fast.

"Ambrose sent one of their supply wagons rolling away, and as the grimy men scrambled to catch it, the Professor cut the lashings that bound the first cage's walls together. One of the poachers spotted him, and the whole group of men came running. Ambrose knew he couldn't fight his way out alone, and thought he was done for. To his surprise, the Cinnamon birds he had already freed began to fight alongside him.

"He moved as quickly as he could down the line of cages, and more and more birds joined the skirmish.

"Suddenly, on of the men jumped out from behind a wagon and attacked Ambrose. The two men fought all the way to edge of the mesa. With one more blow, Ambrose would have fallen off the sheer cliff.

"As the poacher moved in to strike, one of the cinnamon birds swooped over them. It knocked them both over the side, but it clasped its huge, golden talons gently around Ambrose's arms, and glided him safely to the jungle floor.

"To thank him, the people have him one of their cinnamon birds to take back to London. From then all, the whole flock could travel back and forth as they pleased."

"Well," Gregory asked as he closed the book, "what did you think?"

"It was wonderful! Tell me another one, Father, please," Helen begged.

Gregory flipped open his pocket watch. "It's very late, dear," he said. "I think you've had enough excitement for one night."

"Alright," she agreed glumly, "but will you tell me another one tomorrow night?"

"If you go to sleep tonight. Goodnight dear."

He turned to leave, but Helen stopped him. "Father, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"The rule that says women can't be scientists - who created it?"

"Oh, Helen, not again," he said tiredly. He wasn't sure she understood just how improper the topic was.

She nodded sadly and began to pick at a string on her quilt. Gregory lifted her chin up so she was looking him in the eye. "Honestly, I don't know," said the doctor, "but I can tell you why."

She eyed him intently.

"Because they lack imagination."

Helen smiled - her father said that a lot, especially about anything he deemed overly conservative.

"Yes, Father," she answered. Helen slid into the sheets and Gregory tucked them in around her.

"Goodnight," he said softly and kissed her forehead. "Now get some sleep."

"Goodnight, Father,"she mumbled back, already drifting off.

The doctor went to leave, but stopped: something on Helen's bookshelf caught his eye. Gregory picked up the thin handwritten manuscript laying on the top shelf. On the Origin of Species,by Charles Darwin. It hadn't even been published yet. She must have taken the draft his study.

Gregory placed the book back where he had found it. He looked at his daughter and thoughtfully, almost mysteriously, said, "You have potential, Helen Magnus."

The girl didn't answer - she was already fast asleep.

That night Helen dreamed of saving the world, just like Ambrose P. Bennett. She dreamed she was the leader of the Minds, like her father, and when she awoke the next morning, Helen could swear she caught a whiff of cinnamon.

~*5*~

A twenty-three-year-old Helen Magnus stormed furiously into her father's office. Things had been rough since the medical boards had exiled him. The doctor's hair had gone silver, but he was as hard working and driven as ever. Gregory had turned to focus on his private research. As usual on a Saturday night, he sat at his cluttered desk, poring over papers and texts and lab results. He raised his head as his daughter marched in and sat sharply down in the chair facing him without being offered. "Bastards," she scoffed.

"Helen, language," Gregory scolded. "What's wrong dear?"

"Oxford. Like father, like daughter, I suppose," she said bitterly as she handed a letter over a stack of papers and a clay model of a heart. The parchment was folded but the wax seal had already been broken. Gregory's twinkling eyes faded as he read.

"Helen, I'm so sorry," he said, handing the letter back.

"I received the highest possible marks on the entrance exam and they still won't accept me because I'm a woman. And being a Magnus isn't helping much either."

"You're already smarter than the men who wrote the test."

"Still, I'll never be allowed to practice medicine anywhere in Europe without a license. I thought we were making such progress with women's rights, but apparently we're haven't made any sort of change at all!" she complained.

"You know that's not true, Helen. They have no imagination, and after all, that is as much a part of science as chemistry or physics." said the doctor. Helen smiled at her father's philosophy, but it quickly faded.

"What's worst of all is that this was my third time applying. I can't try again." she said, clenching the letter a bit to hard and shattering the seal.

"Not that another perfect score would likely change their minds. These scholars - so set in their ways, and always knowing best - will be the end of progress as we know it!" Gregory said, "But have no fear, darling. You're too bright to go overlooked for long."

Suddenly, Helen stood up and leaned forward with her hands braced on the desk. "Teach me."

He looked at her, startled. "Helen I can't. My private research is...unorthodox. It is not to be entered into lightly. Or in anger."

"You are the most talented medical researcher I know," she told him, with desperation clinging in her throat, "and yet you keep your most important work hidden from the world; from me." She stared straight back at him with dampening eyes. "If you truly believe I have potential, Father please, help me achieve it."

The doctor considered this for a moment. He looked her up and down, and Helen could feel him weighing her in his mind. She felt more nervous now than any exam had made her.

Is it fair to her to keep this a secret? Gregory wondered. Is it more dangerous to know the truth...or to not? After an eternity of tense silence, Gregory rose.

"Come with me."

He lead her swiftly down the stairs, through the large sitting room that opened the house, and to the mouth of a polished stone staircase. There was no door to ward off unwanted visitors, but somehow everyone that had ever entered the Magnus home understood to stay away. Helen often forgot this tiny corner of the house even existed at all.

Gregory handed her a gas lantern and began to descend. She lit it absently and followed. The whooshing flame through sharp shadows around her. The walls began to radiate coldness as they slipped beneath the streets.

All the while a peculiar feeling of excitement laced with fear and anxiety grew in Helen's stomach. When she reached the bottom landing, Gregory stood waiting by the lonely oak door, holding a dull brass key in the lock.

He turned to face her.

"Once you enter this door," he said ominously, "you are on a path that cannot be reversed."

She nodded bravely and he turned the key.

Helen was greeted by a gust of cold air as the door swung open. Sounds of life broke the silence: a breath, a growl, a slither, the rake of a chain on the cobbled floor. She lifted the lantern over her head and stepped into the blackness.

She held the lantern high above her head and gasped. She had never seen anything so incredible.

Helen stood in what must have been one of the most advanced medical research facilities in the world. It had everything: a fully equipped operating area, a chemistry lab bench, piles of piles of books and cabinets stocked with medical supply. Strange colored liquids bubbled in oddly shaped glassware and several polished brass microscopes sat proudly on their benches. Pictures, maps and diagrams had been pasted to the gray stone walls.

And the room was filled with monsters.

As her eyes adjusted, Helen let her lamp fall limply at her side.

A miniature unicorn pranced excitedly in its pen. Several birds hung in metal cages, changing color every time they finished a song. A vicious-looking iguana with four eyes and five spiny tails scampered up the grandfather clock.

In the far corner, several...people...sat around a table playing poker by candlelight.

"Raise ten," said the gruff voice of an incredibly burly figure who seemed to be composed of scraps of metal.

"Call," signaled a flame creature by spelling burning letters in the air. Miraculously, his chair seemed fine, not even singed.

"Me too," added a woman covered in bright orange scales.

The fourth chair looked empty, but a tiny voice squeaked, "Call."

"Aislin, we can see your cards again," the burning man complained.

"Sorry!" squealed the tiny fairy standing on the table, desperately trying to hold her cards upright. She didn't even reach the jack's head.

"I've got it," said the big man. He reached across the table to help her, but his huge frame bumped the edge and set the table shaking. The fairy shrieked as the cards collapsed on top of her.

"Oops, sorry," the metal man said as he plucked them off of her.

"Quite alright," Aislin called, "Thank you anyway, Sandor."

She fluttered out from under the cards on tiny wings like a dragonflies. With all her might she picked up the top ivory chip from her stack and flew up to the center of pot. It landed with a clink in the center of the pile and the fairy dropped down exhaustedly on the others.

Gregory pulled a long lever by the door. A small spark ignited at the end of the handle. It raced down a near invisible wire mounted on the stone walls, lighting each lantern as it passed. When the electricity finished its journey, the room was bathed in soft yellow light. Everyone at the table jumped in surprise. Aislin fell off her stack of poker chips.

"What have I told you about sneaking down hear to play cards?" Gregory asked them.

"Sorry Dr. Magnus," the orange woman replied, head hung.

"This time, actually, I'm glad you're all here," Gregory added. "Jarek, Madeline, Sandor, Aislin, I'd like you all to meet my daughter, Helen.

"Nice to meet you," said Madeline, the orange woman. She hobbled over on a crutch and held out her hand. Helen shook it limply, unable to do anything else.

The others followed. Part of Jarek - the flame creature - burned dimmer than the rest. A large part of Sandor's metal back looked melted. Aislin was speckled with bruises.

They shook her hand one by one - Jarek's lumpy tear drop form produced and crude hand. To Helen's amazement, it felt more like water than anything else. Aislin shook just one of Helen's fingers.

"Nice to meet you all," Helen managed to say.

"First time seeing all this, is it?" Sandor asked kindly. He clapped a huge hand on her shoulder. "Don't you worry - you'll get used to it."

"Maybe," Jarek spelled out sourly.

"Ignore him, he's like that with everyone," added the fairy.

Helen nodded. "Thank you," she said.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind," said Gregory with a wide wave toward a second door.

"Certainly, Dr. Magnus," said Madeline.

They took their leave through what was more a hatch than a door - a rounded metal door with a wheel for a handle. They swung it open and Jarek stuck his. . . head. . . into the darkness. A loud screech echoed down the narrow passage and the word "duck!" appeared in large letters above him.

A massive bird burst out of the darkness with and ear-splitting shriek. The stunning creature with copper feathers and golden talons swooped low over the lab. A sweet fragrance wafted through the air as it flew.

Jarek frowned, if fire can do that. "I hate that bird," he scowled.

Sandor helped Madeline hop over the bottom lip of the hatch and they disappeared into a dark tunnel. Aislin darted after them after recovering from several summersaults caused by the bird's strong air current. Jarek pulled the door shut behind him.

"A good bunch," Gregory said once they were gone. Helen mumbled something inaudible in reply.

She stood starring at the bird. It sat perched in a nest high on the far side of the room - a nest built of cinnamon sticks.

"Dear god," she said finally, "They're real, aren't they? The stories you told me as a child - they're all true."

"Every one," he said calmly.

He went over to the counter and handed Helen a book, a large volume with scraps of paper sticking out from all sides. Like a porcupine, she thought.

Helen ran her fingers over the warn leather cover and finally understood the title written in faded gold letters on the front: Journal.

"Helen, there are beings in this world beyond all imagining...and they need our help."

"Help? What is it exactly that you do?" she asked.

"Not just I," he explained, "there are others. We work to keep the existence of these creatures - abnormals, as we call them - a secret. We protect abnormals from people that would hurt them, or, in some cases, people from them. Not all are as docile as the folks you met this evening.

"What happened to them?" Helen asked.

"A variety of things, but all cases of human violence. Many such victims go unnoticed and unhelped. The ones I can find I bring here. Unfortunately I just don't have the space to let many stay. Once they're sufficiently healed I have no choice but to send them back out into the city. Sadly, I've had repeat customers."

"Where do they stay?" asked Helen. "Where does that door go?"

"You remember the house next door," said Gregory.

"Of course," Helen replied. "It's a nice place but no one ever seems to stay there for long..." Her voice trailed off as she realized why she had never met the neighbors.

"We have a double duty," Gregory continued, "to protect and to study these creatures."

"Study? Why?" said Helen. "I mean I'm sure they're fascinating but what are you hoping to learn?

"Everything!" exclaimed Gregory excitedly. "Abnormals are the key to our evolution, past and future. They are the missing link in everything we think we know about ourselves. So what do we do? We hate them and fear them, and worst of all, we deny that they even exist. They say science is reaching its height, but we are only at the very, very beginning."

"And you keep the secret at all costs?" said Helen.

"As I have promised my friends and myself" the doctor replied.

"I can't do this," Helen said suddenly.

"Of course you can," Gregory answered reassuringly. "I know it's daunting at first, but I know you'll be brilliant."

"Then let me rephrase, I won't do this!" she snapped.

Gregory gave her a shocked and puzzled look.

"I can't devote my life to something no one can know about!" Helen cried. "How can I submit apprenticeship hours if I can't say what I've been doing? The Royal College will never accept that. How can I prove Oxford wrong with some breakthrough if I'm not allowed to tell them about it?"

"Helen if this is simply about a medical license, I've grossly overestimated you," said Gregory coldly.

"Father don't say that," she begged.

"How can I not? All you seem to care about is proving yourself to a board of stuffy old men who haven't the slightest idea of the realities of their world. It seems to me you want to be called a doctor, but you have no interest in actually being one."

"Of course I do, but I'm useless until the board recognizes me!" she yelled.

"I'm telling you that's not true," said Gregory stiffly. "I'm telling you that there is a whole world of beings that don't care what kind of license you have. Not any chap can do this job, Helen. A handful of people in the world have the talent and the ingenuity for it. I think you're one of them."

She glared at him angrily.

"Helen, you'll be proving yourself to every doctor in the world each time an abnormal walks out of this place alright. One day you might even get a chance to show them. But for now, there are people who need you to care about them more than your reputation. They need your help, Helen. So do I."

She looked up from her shoes and took a deep breath.

"Alright."

"Excellent," said Gregory. "Shall we begin?"

~*5*~

"Helen?" Gregory asked his daughter one evening years later. She sat in the basement re-bandaging burns on an apple-tree nymph's leg.

"Dr. Magnus," the nymph squeaked, "Euric was wondering if we might be able to go to the theater tonight."

"How are you feeling, Althaia my dear?" he asked.

"Much better, thank you. You've both been wonderful," the olive-skinned woman answered as Helen started a new roll of gauze. The Nymph started to fix her long white hair in the reflection on the table.

"I don't see why that would be a problem." said the doctor.

"Oh thank you!" Althaia squealed excitedly.

"Just be sure to follow protocol on hiding yourselves in public," Gregory warned

"We will. He should be here any minute with our coats."

Right on cue, the hatch swung open to reveal a tall man with skin made of pebbles and twigs. He carried a huge heap of jackets over and dumped them on the table.

"Euric, let me look at you a moment," Gregory ordered.

The burly forest spirit turned to let the doctor examine the three circular scars on both sides of his shoulder, from when an angry mob ran him through with a pitchfork.

Helen finished tying off Althaia's bandages and the nymph hopped lightly off the table. With the aid of a cane she limped over and began putting on her disguise: a scarf and hat for her hair, a long coat, and tinted glasses to cover up her gleaming magenta eyes.

Euric did the same, covering every inch possible in dark fabric.

Gregory inspected them both and said, "It's getting dark, you should be fine."

"Thank you, Doctor Magnus," said Euric

Althaia checked the grandfather clock. "We'd best be going, or we'll be late."

"Enjoy yourselves," Helen called after them as they disappeared through the tunnel.

She began to put away the tools she had taken out. "Is there something you wish to tell me Father?" she asked.

"As a matter of fact, we've been invited to a Mediterranean dig site where a French archeology team has made a shocking discovery. My contact tells me the fossils are distinctly abnormal. Apparently the researchers are quite baffled," he explained happily.

"Extraordinary," she said.

"I quite agree," said the doctor. "Now, when you've finished here, go upstairs and pack your things. Our first train leaves at five tomorrow morning."

He began to stroll happily out of the laboratory when Helen stopped him.

"Actually Father, I'd like to stay here, if I may," she said.

Gregory turned back to face her, baffled. "Helen, why?" he exclaimed. "This could be one of our greatest discoveries! A specimen this ancient could revolutionize what we know about abnormal evolution."

"I know," Helen said sadly, "and I would like to be there. But what I want even more is to be in charge. Just for a little while. It's been what, six years that I've been studying with you? I'm a doctor by any board's standards. Am I one by yours?"

"Of course you are," Gregory said.

"But you don't trust me with your precious laboratory do you?" she asked.

"It's not that Helen, it just that..." he began.

"Stop lying!" She shouted. "Stop beating around the bush and rolling things in sugar! If you have something to say to me, say it!"

"Helen I will not tolerate this insolence," Gregory warned sharply.

"How can I be equal if I'm not free to speak my mind?" she shouted again.

"Above all else you are still my daughter and I can tell you what to do!" he bellowed.

"How could you say that to me?" Helen shrieked. "All those time you've let me vent about my frustration with woman's rights, all the lectures you've sat through, how encouraging you've been...it was all an act. Well, Bravo! You fooled me!"

"Helen that's not what I meant," he said, softening.

"What exactly did you mean then?" she yelled.

"I meant that you can't follow the rules of propriety only when they suit you," said Gregory. "You can't do this job but insist on wearing those ridiculous dresses and stopping in the middle of a monster hunt for tea time! Besides, I just don't feel comfortable leaving you on your own."

"You'll let me chase down murderous creatures but you don't think I'm safe here at home? I can take care of myself," she declared indignantly. "I'm ready for this."

"No, Helen, you're not," he told her calmly.

"When will I be?" she shouted. "What do I have to do to earn your respect?"

"You had it until about a minute ago. Now I'd say you need to grow up, you sound like a child," said Gregory angrily.

He expected her to explode again, but she didn't. Helen turned to ice and said, "And before then?"

"Well, dear it's..."

"Exactly," she told him coldly. "No matter what I do, I'll never meet you're standards. You don't think I can ever be as smart as you, or maybe I'm too smart already."

"Helen, I'm trying to protect you," said the doctor, his cheeks turning red in frustration.

"Well you're doing a hell of a job!"

"FINE," said Gregory finally, "YOU WANT IT SO BAD, IT'S YOURS! Just remember I warned you. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. I hope this is what you wanted."

A nasty, silent tenseness hung in the air the next morning as Gregory left for the train station. Gregory had calmed down, but Helen was still simmering as they said their, goodbyes'.

It was only after Gregory had shut the door behind him that Helen's anger gave way. Suddenly, the house fell eerily silent, and Helen felt very much alone.

A light rain began to fall that evening as Helen sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair for the third time through. Since the morning, she had cleaned the entire house twice over. No abnormals needed caring for; many of their recent patients had been discharged and no current studies needed to be observed for at least a week.

In fact, Helen was starting to believe that the only reason her father had agreed to this in the first place was because he knew there would be nothing to do. Gregory would have spread message that they would be away. By the time he told her of the trip, half the abnormals in London new to stay away from the office. By now, only a slight few wouldn't have heard.

"Humph." Helen muttered as she blew at a stray piece of hair, vexed.

The young doctor was so bored she began to consider the possibility of mixing random chemicals together until she made a rainbow. Not one of her more brilliant ideas, but never the less Helen took several hairpins in her teeth as she began the complicated process of pinning up her curls.

She jumped so hard when the doorbell rang, Helen stabbed her tongue before dropping all the pins back onto the table with a clatter.

Thrilled of the prospect of doing something - even if it meant cleaning new lab equipment - Helen hustled to the door.

Halfway down the stairs she stopped to see if her tongue still bled - it did. She felt quite foolish answering the door in a nightgown with her hair half done and her tongue throbbing in pain.

Anything to break the silence, Helen told herself encouragingly. She opened the door silently willing the delivery boy to be one she didn't know.

But there was no delivery boy at all.

Helen was startled to see a young man hunched over and clinging to the doorframe for support. His long face, contorted in exhaustion and agony, relaxed a bit at seeing her.

"I'm looking - for Dr. Gregory Magnus," he breathed through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, he's not here right now," she replied.

Panic flashed across the poor man's face.

"But I'm Dr. Helen Magnus," she added quickly, "I can help you."

She half expected him not to believe her - it wouldn't be the first time- but he reached out a shaking hand.

When she reached for it, he pulled away, but Helen was too quick. She grabbed his hand just as a massive burst of energy surged through his body.

It manifested itself as a purple aura, like he was being engulfed in lightning bolts.

Before Helen knew what was happening, the energy raced up her arm and enveloped her too.

For a moment, she had the sensation she was made of air. She felt like a breeze through the door would blow her away or solid objects might pass right through her if she touched them.

Then a pounding feeling clawed its way into her chest. She wasn't breathing! Try as she might, Helen could not fill her lungs.

Suddenly an image flashed in front of her eyes. It was a meadow she had never seen before, yet she could see hear the birds and smell the wildflowers as if she stood in the grass beside them.

In a hazy blur the image changed. Now she stood on a balcony in Paris, overlooking the Eiffel Tower. A vase of roses sat on the table and the sweet aroma of fresh bread and almonds wafted up from the bakery below.

The scene began to fade and Helen took a deep breath before the electricity engulfed her.

It spit her out somewhere very cold.

She started to shiver fiercely as blizzard winds whipped ice and snow all around her. Helen tried to rub her hands together but she couldn't move. At last the energy overtook her.

This time she saw only energy. Purple and orange bolts of electricity arced all around her, encasing her in a web of light. The clawing feeling came back, and grew. Her lungs ached. She wasn't sure how much longer she could last. Her view started fading to black.

Suddenly the entrance hall appeared out of the darkness and the world pulled back into focus.

Helen gasped and slowly recovered her breath. She still held the strange man's hand, and he too was panting fiercely.

She let go and he began to teeter back and forth. Helen got her hands up just as he fell through the door.

The way she caught him, Helen stood looking directly into the stranger's pale blue eyes. He was quite handsome actually, with his sideburns and short, dark ponytail tied up with a ribbon. He smiled weakly at her, and she felt herself smiling back.

"Sorry," he whispered faintly.

"It's quite alright," said Helen as she helped him stand up. With one arm around her shoulders, she helped the man down the basement stairs. "What's your name?"

"Druitt," he choked, "Montague John Druitt. Please, call me John."

"Well Mr. Druitt, I hope I can help you."

She lead him into the laboratory and sat him on the operating table.

"This is incredible," he said, looking around.

"Isn't it? Now..." She instructed him to remove his jacket and put her fingers to his neck and watched the grandfather clock. "Your pulse is racing," she said worriedly.

Helen handed him a small vile. "Drink this. It should help."

He did, and slowly Druitt relaxed. The tension in his shoulders eased and his arms stopped shaking. His breathing returned to a regular pace.

"Thank you," he gasped gratefully. He looked tired, but his eyes sparkled with life.

"You seem better," Helen noted.

"For now, perhaps," Druitt grunted. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It's never been nearly this bad."

"But it has happened before tonight?" asked Helen.

"Oh yes."

She rolled up his sleeve to check his pulse again...and stopped short when she saw a hashing of small gashes crisscrossing his wrist.

"I see," she said sadly.

"You felt it." He pulled her closer. "You saw it. I live every day in fear of drowning in my own mind. I see places, randomly, so real I barely know the difference anymore. I've lost my mind, if it was ever whole to begin with."

"Mr. Druitt, I know it can be overwhelming, but in my professional opinion, you're not insane."

He jumped up angrily. "Aren't I though? I see things that aren't there! I'm a lunatic! I'm mad! Like mum, like my grandmother before her. I try to follow in dear grandmummsy's footsteps, I do."

He picked up a scalpel from the tray beside him and admired it in the lamplight.

"But every bloody time!.." He jabbed the blade at his wrist and Helen rushed to stop him. Just as he scratched his skin, that same surge of energy overtook his body and he contorted in pain, unable to move.

Helen plucked the scalpel from his fist.

Slowly he relaxed and Helen put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You're not mad, Mr. Druitt." she told him kindly. "You're simply different."

He shook his head glumly. "Rubbish."

"Call it an element of your physiology as yet undiscovered by medicine." Helen explained, "And if you'll let me, I think I can help you."

"I don't need any help."

"Knowing when you need help is not a sign of weakness."

"How?" he whined. "How can you help me? I'm a freak of nature, a demon, a devil. I'm not worth saving."

"Yes," she said, feeling hurt, "you are. Come with me. I'd like to show you something."

"Fascinating isn't it?" she said proudly as she showed Druitt some of the highlights of the lab.

"Not so much, when you're living it."

She looked around for sharp objects, suddenly panicked.

"Its all right. I'm not going to try anything again," he said rather happily. "In fact, I don't even want to."

"Really?"

"It seems you have the magic touch Dr. Magnus," said Druitt flatteringly.

Helen smiled broadly.

"What?"

"No one has ever actually called me Dr. Magnus before," she said sheepishly.

"You are a doctor though, right?" he teased. "You don't just feed strange concoctions to every man at the door?"

"Yes, I am," she giggled, then looked away feeling embarrassed. Her guest didn't seem to notice.

"Tell me, your father just let you become a doctor - I'm grateful, believe me- but it is a bit strange," he said.

"He didn't let me so much as I refused to do anything else," Helen explained.

"I see," said John.

She lead him through the hatch and showed him to his quarters.

"Thank you," he said, peaking into his room from the hall where they stood.

"It isn't much, but you should get some sleep before you try to leave. I'll check you again in the morning, but you should be free to go," she said. "Although, Mr. Druitt, I hope that you consider coming back. It will take time, but I do believe I can help you."

"Thank you, for all that you've done," he praised. John took the doctor's hand and kissed it, and Helen tried hard not to blush.

She bid him goodnight and turned to leave. At the end of the hall she turned back to look at him again, now just a silhouette against the doorway.

She really did hope he would come back again. Helen couldn't tell why, but there was something about him. She hoped she could help.

~*5*~

Helen rose early the next morning and put on one of her finest dresses. It probably wasn't necessary, but she felt like making up for last night's appearance. She hurried down to the basement where John was already waiting for her.

"Good morning Dr. Magnus," he said with a gracious bow.

"Feeling better are we? Good morning Mr, Druitt," she replied. "Let me just check your vitals and you should be free to go." Helen opened a cabinet draw and took out a pair of white linen gloves. Just as she slipped them on, the door bell rang upstairs. "I wonder who that could be," she muttered. "Excuse me a moment." Helen hurried back up to the first floor.

She opened the door to be greeted by a small outfit of soldiers. They were Queen's Guard - the soldiers charged with protecting the royal palaces, and when in residence, Queen Victoria herself. An uneasy feeling crept over Helen. These guards were far outside their jurisdiction. What could they want? "Gentlemen can I help you?" she asked, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice.

"Not them. Me."

The column of eight soldiers on the stoop parted neatly. Their perfectly synchronized boot stomps echoed off the nearby buildings. Two more guards held open the doors of an ornate carriage and a well-dressed man stepped out; an man with a face almost everyone in Britain could recognize.

She sank into a deep curtsy as he ascended the stone steps. "Mister Prime Minister Gladstone Sir, how may I assist you?" Helen said as formally as possible. She was now thoroughly confused.

"I'm looking for Doctor Gregory Magnus," said the stone-faced man. You and everyone else, thought Helen. Somehow she didn't see herself wiggling her way out of this one quite as easily as she had with John.

"May I ask what this is about?" she asked curiously.

"No!" the Prime Minister snapped, "You may not." Helen could feel his beady black eyes studying she as she thought up her next remark.

"Doctor Magnus is a very busy man, Sir. I shall need something to tell him." Helen knew she stood on very thin ice, but her curiosity was getting the best of her. As soon as the words passed her lips she regretted them. How foolish of me! I might as well have told him Father was here! she scolded herself. On the other hand, someone may need her help.

"Tell him national security is at stake and it is his duty to the Queen to come with me," Gladstone boomed.

"Actually Sir he's..."

"Immediately."

"Mister Prime Minister Sir, you're not listening."

"Do not talk back to me young lady!"

"But Sir you don't understand. Doctor Magnus is..."

"Right here." a smooth, familiar voice cut her off. John emerged from the stairwell wearing her father's old trench coat and bowler hat. He had a stethoscope slung around his neck and had even stuffed the cotton gloves into his pocket. He bowed politely to the Minister and said, "Please forgive my sister, Sir. She must not have heard me return. Doctor Gregory John Magnus at your service." He held out his hand.

The minister shook it, but eyed John suspiciously. "I was under the impression the Doctor Magnus was much older."

"You must mean my father, Gregory Magnus senior. People are constantly mixing us up - that's why most people call me John." Helen was amazed. He lied flawlessly; he spoke so effortlessly Helen wanted to believe him herself.

Gladstone frowned and wrinkled his nose for a moment. Finally he said, "Very well. Doctor Magnus,you have a patient."

"Let me gather my things," John said as he turned swiftly down the stairs. Helen scurried after him.

"What are you doing?" she whispered at they reached the bottom landing.

"I'm re-," John began in a whisper. He ushered her into the lab and shut the heavy oak door behind them. "I'm repaying a debt," he answered in a louder voice. "And I'm helping you."

"Helping me? How?"

"Actually, I'm really helping someone else. Someone is sick, Helen. Someone who's a ...what did you call it?...abnormal, needs your help. They must be very important because the Prime Minister is personally asking for you."

"But he's not asking for me! You'll get us both arrested," she protested.

"He just doesn't know he's asking for you. Quickly, grab what you," he ordered.

Helen scurried around packing instruments her leather bag. She turned around to find John poking around different workbenches, frantically looking for something. "Ah," he exclaimed and carefully removed an inkwell and pen from underneath several shriveled plant leaves larger than dinner plates, "this will do."

He walked over to her and snatched Gregory's journal out of her bag. "Trade you," he said, offering up his items for the medical bag.

"Why?"

"Because I'm a doctor," he joked. Helen frowned. "We need a reason for you to come along, don't we? No use in me going alone."

"Shouldn't we discuss our plan?"

"What plan?"

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"Fine, but Mr. Druitt please be careful." He smiled and headed out the door. "And John," Helen stopped him. She had one last question that she really wasn't sure she wanted the answer to. "Be honest, how did you learn to lie like that?"

"Am I a criminal?" he finished for her. "No, I'm something much worse. A lawyer." Helen smiled and they made their way upstairs.

Gladstone sat waiting in the carriage. John climbed in and sat on the opposite bench and one of the soldiers handed up his bag. Helen put her foot on the rail and the Prime Minister held up his hand. He turned to John, which quite infuriated Helen, but she kept quiet. "I'm afraid she can't come."

"Then you misunderstand Sir. Helen is my scribe; she documents all of my cases for future study. Her head may be rather empty but her handwriting is impeccable."

"This is one case you do not need to document."

"And if the patient should need treatment again and I forget the specifics of what I have prescribed, it will be your fault Mister Minister, should said person die from mixing medications," John informed him a little two forcefully for Helen's liking. She found herself staring at the cobbles rather than see Gladstone's angry face. Stop testing him John, she willed.

"Very well," Gladstone answered with an unpleasant sniff.

The nearest guard gave Helen a polite hand up and she sat down next to John. He swung the door shut and hopped up on the bottom rail, ordering three of his men to join him. The Prime Minister rapped twice on the wall behind him. With a lurch, the carriage started forward.

"Sir, if I may ask," said John over the clatter of the horse hooves and soldiers boots running beside the carriage, "what is this all about?"

The Gladstone sniffed again. He poked his long spindly nose out one open window, then the other. After deciding that the riding guards were far enough away, he whipped heavy velvet curtains over the openings. The cabin grew dim: the only fragments light filtered in from a small grate overhead. In the darkness, every pitch and turn of the carriage felt sharper.

The Prime Minister leaned forward. Beams of sunlight threw eerie shadows across his face. "What I said about your duty to the Queen, Doctor Magnus, I did not mean simply as an expression."

"You can't mean..."

"Oh, but I do Sir. You have been summoned to treat Queen Victoria herself."

What? Helen's heart stopped. The carriage hit a particularly deep divot Helen lost her grip on the inkwell. She fumbled for it as it jostled around the floor, finally catching it upside down. Sticky black ink began to trickle into her palm. Thankfully the cabin was so dark it was nearly impossible to see the ink, or her beet red cheeks.

"Prime Minister Gladstone Sir, you are aware of what kind on work my brother does, aren't you?" said Helen as she tried to wipe the ink on her petticoats without being noticed by either of the men.

"Control your sister, Doctor Magnus," the Minister snapped. If Helen's face was red before, now it was boiling. She breathed deeply and clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt. "Yes, I am aware of your specialty Sir. I'm sure you realize the implications." Helen grabbed John's arm with her clean hand and he could feel her shaking.

"Queen Victoria is an abnormal," John realized.

"If that is want you call it, yes. The good Queen is far from human, but it hasn't been since she was a child that she was unable to control her form. Suddenly it is as though her abnormality has become stronger - too much for her to handle."

"I've certainly come across the feeling before," said John with a smirk.

"We hope you will be able to help, Doctor Magnus."

Helen let go of John's arm and nodded in the darkness. "We will."

The Prime Minister drew open the drapes again and the short rest of the ride passed in strict silence. The carriage rolled past the familiar facade of Buckingham Palace and around the corner to a smaller side gate. The horses slowed to a halt in front of a service door. The guards dismounted and opened the doors, helping each passenger out. The drivers trotted the carriage away and the men snapped into a perfect line. "Dismissed," ordered Gladstone, and they trotted away in neat columns. He turned back to Helen and John and gestured towards the door. "This way."

"Sir, if I may? Why bring along so many guards?" John asked and they strode quickly down an ornate corridor. Helen couldn't help but be distracted; the palace was absolutely gorgeous. They walked on beautiful cranberry carpet laid over white marble. The walls were covered in mahogany wainscoting and stunning wallpaper bordered by intricate gold-leafed molding.

"We have no idea if this was a deliberate attack on the Queen or not," Gladstone explained as they climbed as marble staircase. "If the public has learned of the Queen's physical state there will be chaos." They crossed a long hallway and came to a double door with two guards posted outside. "Now, before we enter, if you will swear yourselves to secrecy..." They did. The Prime Minister nodded to the guards and held the door.

The Queen's bedchamber was even more spectacular than the corridors, with its white wood and sage walls. A massive four-poster bed stood against the east wall. The beauty of the palace was lost on Helen as she saw the figure laying in the bed. The creature stood several heads taller than a human should have. It had smooth blood-red skin and black talons on its four powerful arms. Tiny horns stuck out of the creatures forehead next to gazelle-like ears, but the queen's familiar features persisted through it all. She's a Minotaur, thought Helen, recalling what she new of the species of abnormal that became the basis for the maze-guarding beast of Greek legend. They are known for being very wise.

Helen sunk into a deep curtsy; John bowed. "You're Majesty," announced the Prime Minister, "Doctor Magnus is here to see you."

"He doesn't look like Doctor Magnus," said the Queen in a hoarse voice.

"This is his son, Gregory John."

"It is an honor to meet you You're Majesty," John said. "Let us see what we have." Helen's pulse quickened. What was John going to do? She was seriously beginning to doubt they could get out of this.

John pulled Helen's gloves out of his pocket and knelt before the bed. They were too small, but he managed to get them on. He pressed two fingers to Queen Victoria's wrist and consulted his pocket watch for several seconds. Quick study, thought Helen as he read of random numbers for her to write down. John repeated this at the Queen's neck then took out the stethoscope. He listened to the instrument, then rose again.

"The good news is this condition has a fairly simple remedy, but I'm afraid I will need several more tools from my laboratory," he told the Prime Minister.

"I will send for them immediately."

"Some of the equipment is quite fragile. I would prefer to retrieve it myself."

"Very well. Come, both of you."

"Actually, Sir, I was expecting to leave my sister here. She has a list of personal questions to ask the patient," said John. The Prime Minister frowned, and considered.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow that."

John's eyes widened in fear, which made Helen even more nervous. "Please, I insist," said John.

"Fine."

A massive burden lifted off Helen's chest. This could work after all.

"Brother, I'll hold your instruments for you. No sense in bringing them home and back again." John handed over his equipment, and his watch.

"Oh, and you might want to give them some privacy," John instructed as he exited the room. The Prime Minister's lip quivered in irritation, but he followed along, closing the door behind him.

"Dear god, it worked," Helen said out loud.

"What worked?" asked the fatigued Queen. Oops. Helen whipped the stethoscope around her neck and hurried to the bed.

"You're Majesty, I'm truly sorry about this but I saw no other way," Helen explained. "I am Doctor Magnus's protege, not John. I'm his daughter, Helen."

"Preposterous!"

"I know how this must seem, but I am the only one in the country who can help you right now. I'm afraid my Father left for the Mediterranean two days ago." The Queen nodded slowly.

"Gregory Magnus has saved my like before. If he trusts you than so do I."

"Thank you." Helen began the same series of tests John had mimicked.

"Shame on him for letting his only daughter become a doctor, though."

"It wasn't his idea."

"Well then, shame on you," said the Queen. She snatched Helen's left hand. "Not even married! It's just not right, I tell you."

"Your heart is racing," said Helen, wanting to escape from a rather sore subject. It made her think of her father and their argument. She wished he was here now. "I can give you something to calm the symptoms but I'm afraid I don't have a cure yet."

Helen gave Queen Victoria the same agent that had worked on John. The Queen's muscles relaxed and slowly she shifted back into a mostly human form.

"I don't know what's gotten into me," she said. "I was a child the last time I lost control like that."

"That's why you were never allowed to see anyone growing up." Helen realized. "You had no control."

"Indeed," answered the Queen sadly. "Suddenly it feels as though my change has grown more powerful; too much so for me to control. I feel much better, thank you."

"The pleasure is mine, You're Majesty, although I'm afraid this isn't a permanent solution."

The Queen's human ears perked up. Helen could see the shadow of her minotaur ears forming on top of her head. "Grab me a piece of paper and a pen from that desk, would you dear." Victoria instructed. Helen fetched the paper and the Queen began to scribble on it. She folded it twice and handed it to Helen.

Helen read it. "A pardon. Why?"

"Don't use it unless absolutely necessary. Then out of this business," she said sternly, grabbing hold of Helen's arm. "Get out of our strange little world and have a normal life."

Helen barely had time to process what the Queens said. The Prime Minister burst into the room followed by regiment of guards and the police inspector. "Helen Magnus," he said, "You're under arrest for impersonating a doctor."

"What?" she yelled as two guards clasped uncomfortable shackles around her wrists. "I'm not impersonating anything. Ask my father."

"Save it for the court," said the inspector and they lead her away.

Helen awoke the next morning to be greeted by the horrible stench of prison. The handcuffs were off, but she sat on a filthy bench behind the bars of a Scotland Yard jail. Since she was the only woman brought in the day before, the cell was otherwise empty. Helen picked up a handful of tiny pebbles and threw them at the far wall. She hoped the Queen was alright. Even more, she hoped John got away. She had no way of knowing if guards had accompanied him to the house or not. It seemed quite possible he was in a cell here too. Helen reached for the pardon tucked safely in her boot, but stopped. Her fingers grazed the smooth paper and she was overcome with the feeling that now was not the time. In that case, it seemed her only option was to wait for he father to return. After this, he would never consider leaving her in charge again. Helen leaned her head back against the slimy stone wall and closed her eyes.

Before she knew it, someone rapped on the cell bars. It was the deputy, a slimy string of a man with greasy blonde hair and three parallel scars running up his arm. "Your bail's been posted," he wheezed. He pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked her cell. The skinny man limped along the corridor and beckoned for her to follow. Helen was surprised to see a familiar face waiting for her in the lobby.

"John? What are you doing here?" she asked. "You bailed me out?"

"Don't flatter yourself. It was your own money," he answered. She decided not to ask.

"You just can't stand to be rid of me, can you?" she teased.

"How I wish that were the only reason. It's..." He trailed off and lead her outside. The smoggy air smelled wonderful compared to the jail. Helen couldn't help stopping to breath it in. A soft breeze blew litter around the street as John lead her away. "Your house is full up with letters begging for help. Including myself and the Queen, I count fifteen people claiming their powers are suddenly out of their control."

"No!" said Helen, "That can't be! Whatever this is, it's spreading." They hurried back to the Magnus house. Helen swung through the open doorway in the entrance hall and into the sitting room. The pristine blue-and-cream floral wallpaper and polished granite fireplace seemed dilapidated compared to the splendor of Buckingham.

Helen dropped weakly into a blue armchair as she began to read. When John went down to the lab, she buried her head in her hands. What if her father was right? What if she couldn't handle it? She felt so overwhelmed she didn't know where to even begin. He would be ashamed of her. He would never let her out on her own again.

"Helen what's wrong?" John asked as he came back into the room.

She shook her head and wiped a tear from her eye. "I can't do this; I'm in over my head. Believe me, I'm the last person to admit it."

"You just saved the Queen of England. I don't think you can do much better than that."

"Look at these letters!" She held up a fist-full of parchment. "It's spreading like a plague. Soon enough every abnormal in London will be out of control. And what then? What if the public discovers them? There will be mobs and manhunts and witch trials; I've seen it before. I have no cure. I don't even know where to start!"

"Helen!" John shouted to grab her attention. He knelt down and grabbed her forearms. "You can do this. You just need to focus."

She nodded.

"You can at least give these people whatever you gave me."

It suddenly occurred to Helen who was talking to her. "Why are you still here?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you stay? I'm sorry; I can't do anything else for you. I'll let you know when I do."

"I..."

"I really just need to be alone right now. I need to figure this out."

John rose and walked for the door. In the doorway he stopped, his figure half-engulfed in the strong light spilling into the entrance hall through the front windows and door. "Honestly Helen, I still feel like I owe you something. And I have nowhere else to go."

"John, wait..!" she called, but it was too late. He shut the door. Once again, that horrible stillness rushed in to fill the vacuum. A crushing lonesomeness engulfed the young doctor.

Helen tried her best to push away the feeling; tried to bury it away somewhere. Finally she picked herself up and went down to the lab. That heart rate controller needed to be synthesized and distilled from the Bogbailey flower. She'd given the Queen her last vial.

As Helen worked, her loneliness dissipated. It didn't vanish, but it faded into background noise - something she could ignore. Soon enough, it barely bothered her at all.

In an hour or so, the first batch was ready. Helen bottled it and packed her bag. She set out for her first several houses, grouping them by location. Most of the houses were near enough to walk between. The sun had held out from that morning, cutting the crispness in the air.

After a boy on fire, three generations of a family with gemstones for eyes and a rather interesting encounter with a shapeshifter, among others, Helen was on her way to patient number eight. She passed several street venders set up in front of the tightly packed houses and store fronts. Traffic was heavy on the road to her left: carts, carriages and wagons clomped along the wide cobble avenue. A strange, unsettling feeling made the hairs on the back of Helen's neck stand up. Unease had been plaguing her all morning. At first Helen had attributed it to her stress over the whole matter, but the longer she walked, the worse she felt. She wove around several children running in in the sidewalk and ducked onto a quiet side street. The sky darkened as a sinister blanked of clouds rolled in over the sun. A salty breeze blew up from the docks and rattled the broken windows of the brick buildings rising on either side of her.

Helen continued for several paces before pivoting around and scanning the area behind her. Nothing. Strange. She had the eeriest feeling she was being followed.

Helen reached into her bag and fished for the address list, keeping a suspicious eye on the horizon. Her fingertips brushed over something smooth and metallic. She pulled out John's pocket watch. He must have forgotten it in his hurry to leave. An unusually chilly gust snapped a pane off the nearest window and sent it shattering on the ground. Helen pulled her medical bag even tighter around her shoulder and hurried on.

Her final patient lived on the bustling street of Warburn Avenue, not far from the Magnus house. Helen's visit went smoothly, but as soon as she set foot on the cold gray streets again, that same unnerving feeling washed over her again. She felt like someone was sticking millions of tiny needles into her spine. She shuddered, trying to shake away the fear. You're just stressed Helen told herself, though she didn't quite believe that anymore.

The young doctor decided to take the long route home. It took more time but would keep her out of alleys and quite roads. She had no desire to be alone.

Helen turned the next corner and a light rain began to fall. A few steps further and an enormous clap of thunder shook the sky. The poor girl nearly jumped out of her skin. She tried to settle her rapid pulse without much luck. The the sudden change in weather distressed her. Not only was she still several blocks from home, but already the streets were clearing. Sellers hurriedly packed up their wares; mothers rushed children inside; horses shook at their reins. This would be a bad one. Helen picked up her pace, but the faster she walked, the harder it rained. With another crack of thunder, the sky let go of all restraint.

Helen started to run - only two blocks to the house. The hard click of mens' boots hurried up behind her. Helen jumped as a strong hand clapped onto her shoulder. She whirled around with fists clenched, and struck only air..The street was vacant. Helen began to shiver, no longer bothering to tell herself it was simply because of the rain.

She ducked into a brightly lit shop. A bell rang as she slammed the door shut. The sign in the window read Calvary Hill Telegraph Station. The thick timber floorboards creaked under her feet and the whole building shook in the storm. Electric lightbulbs hung from anything in the walls that could hold them, casting a warm yellow glow over the room. The small room reeked of must. It was one of the oldest buildings in this part of the city, and yet one of the only with electric power.

"Helen Magnus, good to see you!" said the young man behind the counter in the back of the small room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Paddington," she answered trying to hide her obvious agitation. "How's your father doing?"

"Much better. Nasty storm outside, isn't it? Just came up out of the blue. That happens here in London though, and I..."

"Jeffery!" Helen snapped, "I need to send a telegraph."

"Of course, Miss Magnus," he said rather taken aback. Helen was usually one of the few customers who put up with his rambling. Tonight she just didn't have time. The clerk went bumbling around behind the counter switching on the telegraph. "Where to?"

"Reggio, Sicily, please. To Doctor Gregory Magnus." In her panic, Helen forgot she was fighting with her father, and how disappointed he would be. She was too frightened to think clearly.

"That's far away," he said as he fumbled for the right switches. "Makes me think of..." He stopped himself. "Message?"

Helen considered this for a moment. Her message would be heard by Jeffery and at least one person on the other end of the line, probably more. It had to be discrete. Finally she decided, "Write, the arc is flooding," Helen instructed.

The clerk looked puzzled. "Are you sure miss?"

"Yes. Send the message." Noah's Arc was her father's favorite analogy for his work with abnormals - he would understand. Jeffery began tapping the message into the telegraph. The distinct sound of the machine blended with the pounding of the rain to create an overwhelming pulse in Helen's ears as she stared out the window onto the dim streets. She threw some money on the counter and hurried out the door.

The rain fell in heavy sheets as Helen raced home. A carriage splashed by on the street. Helen was so focused on getting home, she failed to notice it stop at the end of the block, or a tall man climb out. She didn't notice until his stuck his umbrella over her head.

Helen swung around and struck the man in the side. She hit him with such force he crumpled to the ground. "Good afternoon, Doctor Magnus," he coughed.

"John!" she yelped. Could he have been following her? "What are you doing here?"

He climbed to his feet again and once more shielded her with the umbrella. "I stopped by to ask if you'd seen my pocket watch. On my way home I saw you walking and thought I'd offer to walk you home." She studied him for a long moment. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," she answered. "It's just been a long day." The pair hurried along. A loud thump echoed from an alleyway up ahead. "What was that?"

"What?" asked John. He hadn't heard anything but the storm. "Are you sure you're alright."

"It's nothing. It's just all day I've had this feeling I'm being watched."

"What do you mean?"

Helen opened her mouth to answer and a gloved hand clamped down over her jaw. She struggled against it. Another strong hand wrapped itself around her ribs and pulled her into the nearest alley. The arms held her against a wall. She felt the shingles shudder as another figure slammed John next to her.

A third man, smaller than the other two meaty figured stepped in front of her, holding a knife to her throat. Helen could barley make out his features through the sheets of icy rain. His voice, however, she heard quite clearly. "Stay out of this," the man rasped. "We don't want you here. You don't need to get hurt."

"And if I refuse?" Helen spat. The man touched the blade lightly to Helen's skin.

"I will not be so kindly a second time."

One of the big men punched John in the stomach, who doubled over in pain. The second, unsure exactly what to do with Helen, shoved she into John. By the time they found their way up again, the men were gone.

"Bloody hell!" John shouted.

Helen just shook her head. "Let's get out of the rain."

Back inside the Magnus house, Helen bolted the door shut. They stood in the entrance hall wringing out their sopping garments. In the commotion Helen had barely noticed her clothes soaking through. Now the heavy wet fabric felt like lead against her skin. Her teeth began to chatter as she shivered.

"Did he cut you?" John asked.

"I'm not sure," she said, feeling where the knife had touched. John put his hand on her chin and gently tilted her head back.

"Looks like you're alright."

"You'll find suitable clothes downstairs. Excuse me a moment."

Helen hurried upstairs to pull off her waterlogged dress. She replaced it with an older, cream-colored one. The warn cotton felt extraordinarily soft against her skin.

When Helen came down, John had changed and lit a fire in the sitting room. She put a pot of tea on in the kitchen, then pulled a chair up next to his, sitting directly in front of the flames. "Here." She handed him the watch.

"Thank you." He began fiddling with the chain. "Tell me, does this sort of thing happen to you often?"

"There's been the occasional mob or deadly abnormal about to destroy all of London, but no, never anything like this."

"You..." he began, then stopped to study her face. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Sadly no. But there is something different about this one."

"You mean someone threatening to kill you."

"No not that."

"You're serious." She simply smiled. "You're not just a doctor, are you Miss Magnus."

The tea kettle began its sharp whistle.

"Not quite."

Helen returned a minute later with a tray, sporting two porcelain tea cups with matching saucers, and a pewter pot. She poured John's first, then her own.

"So you're a lawyer?"

"Why does that surprise you?" he asked, accepting the warm teacup gratefully.

"You don't strike me as the type," Helen explained.

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment, but tell me then, what type am I exactly?"

Helen blushed. She hadn't been expecting the comment to come back to her this way. "Honestly, you seem like you're meant for more than a simple desk job."

"What, like you?" He met her eyes and smiled. After a moment he continued, "Actually I haven't had desk job or any other sort for some months now."

"Oh," said Helen quietly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

They sat quietly for a long while, sipping the hot brew and watching the flames dance in hearth. The fire's radiant heat seeped into their bones, finally shaking off the rain's icy chill.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Druitt," said Helen after a while. "You shouldn't be involved in this."

"And you should?"

"Those men were after me. Now that they think you're involved, they might come after you too."

"Do you have any idea who they were?" John asked.

"I couldn't even see their faces in the rain," said Helen, shamefully.

"That isn't your fault."

Helen stared into the fire, barely registering his comment. "I sent a message to my father," she said more to the open air.

"That's a bad thing?"

"We had a. . . disagreement before he left. He told me I wasn't ready for this. He was right. I can't even hold things off until he gets back. I had to call for help."

John couldn't help admiring Helen's face, accentuated by the orange glow of the fire light. "Knowing when you need help is a sign of strength," he said. "A wise young woman once told me as much."

Helen smiled weakly. "I guess you're right. It's just, I have no idea where I'm even supposed to start."

"Start by telling me what you know," John suggested.

"Alright," Helen agreed. "You were the first in a series of cases in which an abnormal's power suddenly became too great for them to handle. The outbreak, at least for now, seems to be localized in the northwest quadrant of the city." She paused for a moment. A panicked look flashed over her eyes.

"What?"

"I just realized, all of the abnormals affected have been humanoid - enough so to blend in with the human population of the city. That, coupled with our warning earlier, convinces me this is not a natural sickness. It's a deliberate attack!"

"Why would someone do that?"

"I have no idea, but we've got to do something," Helen said as she jumped out of her chair.

"Helen," said John, tugging her back into her seat, "calm down."

"How can I? We've just solved the first piece of the puzzle. I might be able to help these people."

"I liked your first plan better," he told her.

"What first plan?" She thought for a moment. "You mean calling for help and letting other people do all the work? Sitting back while people are in trouble?" She stood up again. "How could you ask me to do that?"

This time, John rose with her. "When people come at you with knives, I find it's best to listen. What changed from two minutes ago that is making you change your mind?"

"We know this is deliberate, John. Someone is orchestrating an attack. I don't know what their motives are or what they're planning, but until we find out we can't drop it."

"I don't understand," said John.

"No you don't. It is entirely possible that the purpose of this little act is to out the entire abnormal community. That won't happen on my watch."

It started to occur to him the gravity of what Helen faced; the horrid possible outcomes she could see right now in her mind. "Is there anything I can say to stop you?"

"I'm afraid not," the young doctor answered. In truth, the very words rolling off her lips right now scared her. She still had no information and no plan, just a reason to keep fighting. John walked over to the cold window and stared out at the dismal gray street. Rain still pounded hard on the cobbles and biting winds tore at every house in view. "What's your plan?"

Nothing. I don't have one, she thought, but answered, "To follow your advice." John raised an eyebrow. "Ask for help."

"I though you said your father was days away, at best?"

"He is. I thought I'd pay a visit to an old friend. More like acquaintance, actually; he's never really liked me much. But he's privy to the world of abnormals, and James Watson is the best detective in London."

Helen came downstairs the next morning to find John already waiting by the door. The storm had passed and the angry black clouds had given way to a perfectly clear sky. Well, as clear as the sky can get over London. The sun was hard at work drying muddy puddles speckling the streets. Helen retrieved her boots from where they had been drying by the fire. She sat down on a chair in the hallway and began to slip them on. "You are free to go, you know."

"Perhaps, but I'm not leaving."

"So I've noticed," Helen answered as she laced up her left boot. "Really what ever is keeping you here, you officially have permission to let go of."

"It's not about me anymore, Doctor Magnus. I'm not letting you go out alone," said Druitt innocently. Apparently he struck a nerve because Helen laced up her other boot with such force that her knuckles went white. All the color missing from her hands rushed to her face, and she glared at him with red-hot cheeks and fiery eyes.

"What, because I'm a woman? You don't think I can take care of myself?" Helen said indignantly. She attempted to storm out the door, but Druitt caught her by the arm.

"I'm going with you Doctor Magnus," John told her. "You'll just have to take my word that I would do it for anyone."

"Let's go," she replied with a frown. Helen dragged him out the door and hailed a carriage. "Baker street please," she instructed the driver.

"So this Watson fellow, why doesn't he like you?" John asked a few minutes into the ride.

Helen smiled. "You'll see."

They came to a stop in front of a dull gray house, sandwiched in with the rest on the street. Helen tipped the driver and they climbed out. The pair walked under a lamp hanging from wrought iron archway. The front glass panel had the letters 221 B stenciled on it in black ink. They ascended the front steps. John rapped on the faded black door with his knuckled. After a few moments, he did it again.

"We're closed!" shouted a voice from inside. John heard what sounded like bolts being thrown, he shrugged and started to walk away.

Helen was not so easily deterred. She took up knocking on the door. "Watson, open up!" she shouted back, then added with a cringe, "I need your help."

The bolts unlocked. "Why didn't you say so?" said a lanky figure as he opened the door with a lavish gesture. Watson had grown to be tall man with jet black hair and a neat goatee. He had a long pointed nose that arched up toward his forehead and hawk-like eyes that read her as easily as ever. "So the little doctor girl had finally decided to stop pretending and let the men do their jobs."

"Not quite; we need your help with a case James. Sorry to disappoint."

"And who is this? Always forgetting your manners, aren't you Helen."

"This is Mr. Montague John Druitt," Helen introduced.

"Please, call me John." They shook hands. "I'm a patient of Doctor Magnus's."

Watson's face went stiff. "Oh," he sniffed. "My dear boy, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Actually, Doctor Magnus is..." he began but Helen held up her hand to cut him off.

"It's useless, Mr. Druitt; save your breath," said Helen with a sigh. "Some people simply lack imagination."

"Some people lack any and all respect for the rules of society," Watson retorted as he lead them into his parlor. "Next thing we know, you'll be wearing trousers!"

"I left them home, just for you," she taunted. In truth, the idea of wearing trousers horrified Helen. Whatever her personal battle with society, she still had standards. But the more she could shake Watson up, the better. He snarled.

"Someday, Helen, this will all come back to bite."

"Actually James, you may be in luck."

Watson offered them seats and disappeared down the hall. The trinkets and bookshelves in the room reminded her a bit of the Magnus parlor, and that's no doubt where his inspiration came from. Helen had to admit he had exquisite taste. The draperies looked Venetian, the furniture French and she wouldn't doubt the rug had been imported from China. Watson wasted nothing on appearance. Even his clothes were some of the finest money could buy, although it was Saturday morning and he had clearly been planning to spend the day alone.

James returned with a tea tray, which he placed on the coffee table in the middle of the three chairs. They helped themselves as Helen began the story of the past several days. She told him about John and the Queen, showed him the letters, and explained the attack on them.

"Interesting," James mused when she finished. He rose and fetched a slab of cork board and a sheet of paper from his desk, then sat back down. He began to scratch at the paper with his pen: first horizontal and vertical lines, then curves and diagonals. Slowly a street map of London emerged on the page.

John looked at the drawing in awe. He had done the whole thing from memory. Helen, however, was not impressed. "You could have just pulled out a map, you know."

"What would be the fun in that?" he asked smugly.

"Anyway..." Helen coaxed.

"May I see the letters, please?" Watson asked. That was something that had always bothered Helen; no matter how vain Watson was, he still came off as charming. She handed over the letters. James took out a box of pins and started sticking then into his map at the location each letter came from.

"Brilliant," Helen admitted.

"You're still surprised?"

She ignored him. "Perhaps we can locate the illness's point of origin."

The two of them took out straightedges and compasses; going over and over the map, drawing all sorts of lines and connections. Every so often they would scribble one out and start that section over. All the time, they theorized about what and who could be causing the plague. Helen and James kept alternating, hurrying to the bookshelf one after the other.

Soon the floor was littered in open books and scraps of paper. Helen and James sat hunched over their map, chattering excitedly. John got the idea that they each enjoyed the other's company more than they admitted. At the moment, he, however, felt very much out of the loop. He sat in his chair, sipping his cold tea and watching these two brilliant minds talk.

He could never be one of them - he knew it. He would never be nearly as smart as Helen. He was beginning to doubt insisting to come along. Clearly he was not needed here. The longer John sat there and thought about it, the more useless he felt. That horrible, inky-black feeling of isolation began creeping back inside him. That feeling of belonging nowhere started eating at his soul again. For the first time in quite a while, the monster had let him be. Helen had taken the feeling away, though he wasn't sure why or how. He shook his head and tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere.

"I think we've got it," said Helen shortly after.

"Perhaps you two aren't quite as different as you think," said John from his chair. They shot him identical glares. Point proven. "What have you come up with?"

"The epicenter of all the cases is somewhere near..." Helen began.

James cut her off. "Between Charter street and Ashmore lane, west of London centre."

"That's still a five block radius," said John.

"I know," said Helen, "but it's the best we could do. There are too many outliers. We'll need to take a little trip - search the area and try to determine the cause."

"Is that safe?" James asked. "I do recall a part in your story involving strange men with knives and firearms."

"I never actually saw any guns," Helen insisted

"It was raining so hard we couldn't see anything."

"Regardless. We'll keep a low profile, everything should be fine." The boys looked at her. "It'll be far more dangerous when the world learns about abnormals," said Helen.

"We don't actually know that's what they're planning," John reminded her. Too late. Helen was already out the door. "Is she always like this?"

"Now you see my point."

They made their way to Watson's coordinates and began their search. The three agreed it was best to stick together, so they moved as a pack. Hitting, dead end after dead end, Helen started scurrying ahead of the men, desperate for some type of lead. James and John kept in sight of her as they walked.

"Why do you disapprove so much of Helen's becoming a doctor," John asked.

"Women have their place," he replied coldly.

"She saves lives you know."

"Perhaps."

"Would you let her save yours?"

James considered this for a moment. "No."

John went silent. Quite a character, he thought. He decided to change the subject. "How do you know Helen?"

"Her father, the actual Doctor Magnus, tutored me for quite some time. I first came to his attention when a colleague of his suggested I might be an abnormal. They decided my skills, while not being average, were 'normal'. What about you? If you're Helen's patient you must be an abnormal yourself."

John didn't answer. There it was again - that feeling of belonging nowhere. It beat at his chest like it wanted to break free. This time, the feeling was laced with something else. He couldn't quite place it. It felt like an adrenaline rush coursing through his veins, without the emotion. A hearty clap on his shoulder pulled John out of his thoughts.

"Fear not, my boy," Watson was saying, "I won't press."

In the mean time, Helen entered a gritty, nearly deserted tavern. Several rosy-cheeked men sat at the bar, throwing back pints of beer. Not their first, judging by the empty glasses scattered on the bar around them. They wouldn't be much help. She was about to turn around and leave when she spotted a solitary gentleman sitting at one of the farthest tables from the door. He was busy polishing the his table with a handkerchief. He finished and wiped his hands with another, his lips curling in disgust. Then the man placed a notebook on the clean patch of table.

"Excuse me, Sir..." Helen began as she approached him. He was a wiry little man with a very pointed chin and hair that would not sit flat despite rigorous combing. Even through the stench of the tavern, Helen could smell his French cologne.

"I'm sorry darling, I'm not signing any autographs today," he said with a thick Eastern European accent. He looked up a her. "Then again. For a woman as fine as yourself I believe I can make an exception." He took her hand and kissed it. Helen couldn't reject such a gesture, but she cringed underneath her smile.

"I'm sorry, Sir you misunderstand," Helen explained. The man's mischievous eyes widened in fright as Watson and Druitt walked up behind her.

"Whatever it was, I didn't do it," he said quickly.

"We're not accusing you of anything Mr... I'm sorry what was it again?" said James.

"None of you even recognize me?" he said, deflating. They shook their heads. The man frowned. "I am Nikola Tesla, brilliant scientist and genius extraordinaire."

"Wait, I do recognize the name," said Helen.

"Thank you!"

"You're working with Thomas Edison on the theory of electricity."

"Worked. I worked with Edison, the lousy cheapskate," Tesla corrected.

James rolled his eyes; and people thought he was pompous. "Mr. Tesla, we're wondering if you've seen anything strange in the past few days."

"Strange, are you kidding." Helen held her breath. Perhaps they might actually find out some helpful information. "The housekeeping here is terrible; my sheets are filthy, I can barely sleep at night. There's a layer of dust over everything and your coffee tastes like watered-down dirt." Perhaps not.

"Thank you for your help," Helen muttered as they left.

Outside, she slumped against the tavern wall and ran her fingers through her hair. "What now?" she sighed. "We've been over every inch of our search area without a single lead."

"It'll be alright Helen," said John encouragingly. "We can come back in a day or so and look for more answers."

"Let's head back to the lab and see what we can find there," added James.

"I suppose you boy's are right," Helen acknowledged. "No sense in exhausting ourselves."

"That's the spirit." John held out his elbow for Helen and the three of them headed back along a stretch of street they had already passed. Just a few meters beyond the tavern, a wonderful aroma tickled their noses.

"What is that?" Helen asked, delighted.

"I completely forgot," said John, "a new bakery went in on the corner. I've been there once before, it's exquisite."

"Let's have a look, shall we," said James. "On me."

The whitewashed clapboards of the bakery stood out sharply against the gray hue of the rest of the city. It sat on the corner of Charter street and Newcomen avenue and large windows overlooked both streets. Inside the bakery was bustling with activity. Round tables dotted the floor, each one packed with patrons chatting and munching on pastries. As they stood in line for the counter, Helen noticed a large cork board in one of the windows by the door. On it, people had posted advertisements over and around wanted posters put by Scotland Yard. Not an inch of cork showed between all the scraps of paper.

When the trio finally made their way to the counter, they realized why the line moved so slowly. The entire wall behind the counter was covered in bins, baskets and jars filled with every sweet and pastry imaginable. They took in the sight of colorfully frosted cakes and cookies, scones and biscuits, croissants, crullers, muffins and so many other doughy confections. The smells of dough and sugar and a faint dusting of cinnamon were overwhelming.

They finally took their pick of pastries and were on their way to find a table when Helen saw something that nearly made her choke on a bite of her lemon-filled sticky bun. Two new posters had been added to the cork board. They read: WANTED: Helen Magnus and Montague Druitt for IMPERSONATING A PHYSICIAN, ESCAPING CUSTODY, AIDING IN A JAIL BREAK, among others.

"Perhaps we should eat outside," Helen suggested. She hurried John out the door. James joined them a minute later with the posters in hand, having covertly plucked them off the board.

"Care to explain these?" James asked when they were well enough away from the bakery.

"I told you the entire story earlier," said Helen.

James wave the papers in front of her, pointing at the ink sketches of them. "You neglected to mention be fugitives."

"We aren't. Or, at least, we weren't this morning," Helen explained. "Nothing we've done is illegal."

"Except impersonating a physician," Watson pointed out.

"I am a physician," she snapped. He crinkled his nose in a disdainful sniff.

"Would you two mind continuing this another time?" John interjected. "We've got company."

Several constables were patrolling their beat. One of them stopped and tacked up several fresh WANTED posters outside Smithing's General Store a few blocks up the road.

"Let's get out of here." Helen hailed a carriage-for-hire and they quickly piled in. " 37 Tungsten street, please," Helen leaned forward and instructed the driver. She closed the thin wooden panel, cutting off the man outside. "What now?"

"Helen is it really wise to go back to your house?" James asked. "If you really are under arrest, there police will already have been there. Some might be waiting for us."

"I know," she said. "I'm hoping we can get in through the guest house."

James stopped and looked at her squarely. "You're sure you didn't do this? Warrants don't get signed with no rhyme or reason."

Helen was about to point out (again) that he'd already heard the whole story, when she paused. "Who did it?"

"What?"

"Who signed the warrant?" Someone had ordered their arrest, and it was entirely possible that whoever said person was, they played some part in whatever was going on.

James squinted at the Helen's page. "One Inspector Jeremiah Collins Jr." he said. Helen frowned.

"It isn't him," she said certainly. "He's known my father for ages. They met when Collins was a Deputy Commissioner with Scotland Yard. The deputy has the means to get things done out of the public eye; he has the keys to the city, so to speak, and all important papers cross his desk, but the press and the public leave him alone. Mr. Collins helped my father keep a certain abnormal incident under wraps a while back. I don't think he'd do this."

The two of them dropped into an argument again, bickering over what to do next and what leads to follow. John simply stared out the grimy little carriage window, watching the gray streets of London go by.

"John, are you alright?" Helen asked, waking him from his thoughts. "You've been awfully quiet."

"Sorry. I was simply..." he began, but trailed off. John's eyes widened. Slowly, a look crept over his tired face; a look somewhere between agony and panic; a look Helen had seen on his face once before. "No!" he breathed.

"John!" Helen shouted.

It happened. This time it was only a flicker, but it happened. The orange webs of light shadowed by purple mist and sparks flashed over most of his face and his shoulder, then were gone. A few seconds later, the energy came again, flooding his left arm. Randomly, and rapidly, the electric webs flashed over him. John's body looked like a candle in a breeze that flickered and went dark but refused to go out.

"What's happening?" James asked nervously.

"He's loosing control!" Helen said, with even greater anxiety but a carefully controlled, calm voice . "We've got to get him out of here."

John's whole body shook fiercely as the sparks covered more and more of him.

Helen slid the panel open. "Driver, we'll get off here," she said much more calmly than she felt.

"You're still a good fifteen minute walk from Tungsten, are ya' sure ma'am?" the cabbie said gruffly.

"Yes." The carriage slowed to a halt. Helen and James paid the fare and jumped out the opposite door, hurrying around to John. "John, can you hear me?" she whispered. He nodded weakly. "I need you to try and control it, just until we find somewhere to hide."

"I am," he grunted.

"Well try harder," James instructed. "Come on."

They helped John down from the carriage. He wobbled as he walked; his legs could barely support him. Helen put her arm around his shoulder and started walking him away as fast as she could. She sent James a few paces ahead to search for a place to hide.

Helen felt a surge come over John and herself, and for a moment she saw a pub she vaguely recognized from the other side of town. When the sidewalk returned to view, Helen took a quick look behind her, and began to walk even more quickly. Constables marched down the intersecting street behind them. There must have been twenty-five men now, all in blue and some on horseback. They were being followed.

James waved Helen into a dirty little alley just as half of the policemen turned down their street. They lowered John down behind a stack of crates and pallets to shield him from the road. Helen propped his back against the damp brick wall, and dared to take his pulse.

Suddenly, John's eyes shot open and his face clenched into a snarl. "I thought you were supposed to be helping me!" he shouted angrily and swatted away her hand. "You said I would be able to control it!"

"I said it would take time," she hissed in an urgent whisper. "Now hush!"

"Don't tell me what to do." John leaned forward for something; to hit her maybe, or yell in her face, or perhaps to stare into her fearful eyes. James shoved his shoulder back against the wall with a steady hand.

"My dear fellow," James began. "What's gotten into you?"

"I..." he began, shaking his head. "I don't..."

"John, you said you'd been to that bakery before," Helen cut in suddenly. "When?"

"A few - days or so - maybe," he mumbled in broken language.

"Was is Wednesday?" she asked him urgently. His stared past her, his eyes glazing over. "John was it the day you came to see me?"

He nodded weakly. Helen turned to James. "That's it - the bakery. It's the source. It's new, too. I'd be willing to bet it opened just as these incidents began."

"Makes perfect sense; someone in the bakery must have tipped off the police," Watson replied, "but I'm afraid we have bigger problems." He cocked his ear to the street. Helen paused and could hear it too - the ominous clomp of synchronized boots on the cobbles. She peered through the slats in the wood beside her to see the first blue uniforms parading along the sidewalk.

A surge swept over John. The energy illuminated the wall behind him, casting a fluid glow on the bricks like sunlight on the bottom on a pool. Helen watched one of the officers on the street hold up his fist. The procession stopped and he nodded in their direction. She turned back to her companions and gave James a panicked glance. "What's wrong?" John wheezed through his daze.

Without thinking about it, Helen grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. "John I need you to focus on something, anything, to stay under control."

It just so happened that he focused on a small symbol, a crest, printed on the corner of the the wanted posters.

Helen could feel another surge building in John's body. He had to stop it before any of them saw him. She could feel policemen's footstep pulsing with her own heart. Helen couldn't bring herself to look through the slats and see just how close they were. An anxious tension built in the air around her, a feeling much more heightened than she expected. The most peculiar part was that James and John could feel it too. The near-tangible energy kept escalating around them until the air felt ready to burst.

Several policemen, with their blue uniforms and black boots and polished brass buttons, stepped out from behind the crates brandishing their firearms. "Police! Put your hands on your heads!" a young officers yelled. Helen and James stared back into his eyes.

The official report would say the three persons-in-question slid into a nearby coal cellar before making their escape. It could not, however, say what the men had actually seen in the alleyway. Captain Benson and Lieutenants Payne and Smith had faced the fugitives, looked into the whites of their eyes...and poof. They disappeared. A surge of orange light had emanated from the man in the middle. He must have been holding something, some sort of device that they hadn't seen, because the energy looked like it was coming from him. Whatever it was had engulfed the three of them, and they were gone.

"Bloody hell!" James shouted as orange shroud spit them out. Helen still held John's hand, and James was supporting his shoulder, but the scenery behind them had changed. The gritty brick wall had melted away. The pallets and policemen were out of sight.

"Dear god," Helen whispered as she craned her neck to look around, "where are we?" The three of them sat on a beautifully woven rug in the center of an elaborate study; the room put both hers and James's to shame. Hardwood bookcases hugged the elliptical curve of the paneled walls. A massive window overlooked a verdant lawn spotted with gardens. Beyond a high wrought iron fence, London sprawled across the landscape.

James rose to his feet. "Here's a better question," he mused. "How on earth did we get here."

Helen looked at John, now slumped over on the floor; the surges has stopped. His eyes fluttered open. "What happened?" he asked in a daze.

"It was you," said Helen, shocked as she realized what had happened. "John, you transported us here."

"Impossible."

"That's ridiculous," James added.

"When enough surges, enough energy, builds up in your body, what happens?" she asked John.

"I see things."

"No, you see places, locations so vivid they seem..." Helen paused.

"Real" John finished.

"What are you saying?" James asked her incredulously. "Helen, I've heard of powerful abnormals, but teleportation?"

"Egyptian Sandspirits can teleport."

"There're hardly material to begin with!"

"Ocopalii"

"Extinct."

"Regardless. When those surges of energy build up in you John, your mind goes to the whatever place you're focusing on. If you have enough power, your body goes too," Helen explained.

"I do no such thing!" he shouted and slammed his hand down on the floor. Helen placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"John. . ." she said as softly as she could. She knew he was frightened of what he'd become. What he'd always been.

"I am not a monster!"

"Quiet," Helen hissed. "We don't know were we are."

"Yes we do. In order for John to bring us here. . ."

"I didn't bring us anywhere!" John insisted.

James ignored him and continued: " . . .he must have known about it." James studied the warrants still clenched in his hand. "Here." He pointed to the crest in the corner of the paper, then at the same symbol emblazoned on the front of the large desk looming over the back of the room. "The boar and the double dragon; I known I've seen that crest before."

"Lord Alister Becket" John choked as he pulled himself up the desk leg.

Helen rushed to help him. "I know that name. He made the Gazette not two weeks ago."

"Yes, yes, of course," James chimed in. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the blurred black and white image surrounded by splotched text. "A photo of Lord Becket shaking hands with the deputy inspector appeared on the front page. A photograph taken in this very room."

Helen smiled as her mind made sense of it all. Upon seeing the crest on the wanted posters, John's mind had conjured up the image from the newspaper. His severe concentration on the emblem, in an ironic attempt to stifle the energy, had release it all and transported them into the office.

"The Becket estate had a hand in issuing our your arrest warrants; we'd best not stay here too long," James suggested. He wiped his hands together as if he had some laborious task to complete. "I'll check this way."

"Can you walk?" Helen asked John.

"Yes, I'm fine. I actually feel quite well, in fact." He felt free. He felt light as air. Here was undeniable proof that he was a freak, an abnormal monster, and for now at least, it didn't bother him.

James headed for a small, mundane door with a tarnished handle. "Just a storage room," he called with his head poked into the tiny room. Helen and John went to investigate the larger double doors that looked to be the only entrance into the room. She ran her fingers over the polished handle and swung one door open. A gust of cold air brushed over her, although the hall had no windows. Helen took a step forward and her heels let off an eerie whisper as they echoed on the slate floor.

The hall's stone walls were pushed back to make room for the row of five identical pedestals running down each side. A glass case topped each column, guarding the artifact displayed inside. Helen walked up to one case and read the tiny golden plaque: Tusk of a Bakeneko Captured 17 Dec 1861 Onua Japan. A puzzled, frightened look drew across her face.

"What's wrong?" John asked, coming in to stand beside her.

"A Bakeneko is a powerful abnormal that resembles a leopard. When one dies, its teeth are ripped out of its mouth by the rest of the pack and given to the most eligible warrior."

"To do what with?"

Helen seemed surprised by the question. "To grow into their own mouth and make them stronger. To collect one means fighting off an entire pack of abnormal cats. I don't understand how anyone could come across one."

"Perhaps a local lied about the tooth to make some money," John suggested as he wandered farther down the passage.

"Let's hope." She peered closely into one of the other cases. She recognized the object inside as the scale of a prehistoric Amphiptere, not unlike the fossils her father was digging for in Sicily at that very moment. Unearthed 2 July 1858, according to the sign. The other cases, too, held abnormal artifacts: The serrated tuck of an African Sunbeast, the very rare crystalline bone of a Maijin and others she hadn't even heard of.

"Helen did you find anything?" James called.

"Come and look at this," she replied. He joined her beside a case housing the petrified egg of a Strix Romani, Collected 30 May 1847.

"Interesting," he muttered.

"I know. All of the objects on display here are distinctly abnormal," said Helen. "Becket is human, correct?"

"To the best of my knowledge."

"How could he know about all this?" asked John, standing before an identical set of double doors at the opposite end of the hall.

"Are you alright?" Helen asked as he wobbled a little.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he insisted as shooed her away, but braced himself on the doors behind him. With a soft metallic click, the latch let go and the door swung open, sending John tumbling onto the glassy stone floor on the other side.

"John!" Helen called.

"Dear God," he whispered to no one in particular. Helen started to ask what he was referring to, but as soon as she and James crossed the threshold they fell silent as well.

They stood in a large chamber. Long silk curtains framed gleaming windows; the towering cathedral ceiling looked down over a glassy parquet floor. What had been designed as a ballroom now stood as a morbid museum one hundred times worse than the hall they just exited. Metal cages of every size grew out of the floor in neat aisles, still more lined the walls. What froze the spectators, though, was the cages inhabitants.

There must have been hundreds of them - abnormal creatures imprisoned like zoo animals. Helen couldn't begin to name then all. The newer prizes rattled against their cages but most sat in miserable stupor, broken and unwilling to move.

"Who would do something like this?" Helen spat angrily. Her voice cracked as she choked back tears.

"He must have been. . .collecting. . .for years," said John.

"You don't 'collect' sentient beings and imprison them for your own pleasure," she seethed.

"Isn't that exactly what you and your father do, capture abnormals for your own knowledge?" James retorted.

"Not now James," she said surprisingly quietly. "I don't want to hear any more of. . ."

A new voice, coming from inside one of the nearest cages, interrupted her. "Helen? Helen Magnus?" said the gruff voice. More of the prisoners came to life at the mention of the Magnus name. More shrieks growls, chirps, hisses and calls of all sorts reverberated off the solid stone of the ballroom.

Helen stepped nearer to the cages. "Euric? Is that you?"

"Good to see you Doctor!" the pebbled man boomed as he rose and came to the front of his iron cell.

"Euric, how did this happen? What's going on?"

"Lord Becket, it's him," the creature replied, his leaf-green eyes staring earnestly back at her. "And he's planning something big."

"I know," replied Helen. "That is how we ended up here. Abnormals all over the city are loosing control." She had to shout now, just to be heard over the rising racket of the room.

"Helen, this is just the beginning," said Euric gravely. "He knows things."

"Such as?"

"Everything," the creature warned nervously. "About abnormals, about science, about you. He knows my species is paralyzed by the wings of the krikva beetle."

"That's impossible," cried Helen in dismay.

"Yet that is how he captured me. Outside a theater in Brent no less. Althaia barely managed to escape."

"Euric I'm so sorry," she said solemnly.

"Thank you, but you should have greater concerns. Helen, he's planning to. . ." The hundreds of other creatures drowned out Euric's sweet, deep voice and swallowed it up into their collective racket. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.

A bang loud enough to be heard over the noise echoed through the room as a door on the opposite side swung open with force. The room plummeted instantly into a ghostly silence. A rotund little man in a tail suit strode casually towards them, his silver cane clicking against the floor with each step. "Helen Magnus!" he call joyfully, as if her presence was some sort of unexpected gift. His large nostrils flared as beady black eyes examined the three of them.

Helen fought to suppress a shiver. He knew her name, recognized her face. The young doctor could feel his eyes burning into her, learning every detail they could from her outward appearance.

"Lord Becket," she said, half questioning the new arrival, half stating what she already knew. The man nodded an all-to-courteous 'yes'.

One of the abnormals he passed, a primate with eight long arms, began to shriek a warning, pulling desperately at its cage. The short man smacked his cane against the iron bars and the creature slunk back into the shadows.

"Extraordinary! Simply extraordinary! The daughter of the great Gregory Magnus, here, in my own home!" he squealed with giddy excitement. "I must say, your work had been something of an inspiration to me. The two of you have captured almost as many beasts as I have."

Helen felt sick. How could she be compared to this blackhearted monster? "My father and I save lives, you ruin them," she spat with more confidence than she felt. "Abnormals are sentient beings who deserve the same respect as you and I."

"Yes, yes, abnormals. That is what you people call them. No matter." Lord Becket brushed the idea away with the wave of his hand, like he had barely heard her at all.

"What do you gain?" James cut in suddenly, his analytical mind unable to withhold the question any longer. "You don't use the creatures for any particular purpose, you just lock them up - what do you gain by keeping them at all?"

"An who might this be?" the portly man asked. He had been blind to all but Helen until this point.

"Friends of mine," Helen said bitterly.

"Friends. . .or patients?" Becket asked ominously. He studied them over again, his eyes lingering a moment too long on John.

"Friends," she stressed.

Lord Becket frowned. "Very well. The answer, my boy, is that you don't do anything with art. You, collect it, display it, admire it." He rapped again on the nearest few cages for no particular reason. "Art rarely does anything but exist.

"You're awfully quiet," he continued, approaching John and studying his face.

"Shall I be louder?" John asked through gritted teeth. His fists clenched and muscles tightened. From the pervertedly happy smile on Lord Becket's face, John must have looked incredibly angry. Apparently Helen thought so to, because she put a soft hand on his arm. In truth, John was terrified. His mouth continued spitting nasty words at Becket, but only one thought ran through his mind. He's made me, he's made me. I am going to be locked up in here for the rest of my life with these other retched creatures.

"Not now," Helen whispered. John followed her gaze to several long shadows shifting over the glassy floor.

Lord Becket clapped. "Impressive, my dear," he cooed. "We are not alone." The man's twisted, giddy smile deflated like a popped balloon. "Which brings us to the much more pressing matter of how you three miscreants managed to break into my home in the first place. It just so happens to be on of the most secure facilities in London."

"What are you going to do," James asked, "call the police?"

"Nonsense!" the tubby man chuckled. "They are already here." With a snap of his fingers, six men in constable's uniforms materialized out of the shadows. The unit swarmed in from around the cases and behind the curtains, truncheons in hand, firearms drawn.

"On your knees!" cried a horrible raspy voice. Something clicked in Helen's mind; she had heard that voice before. The three intruders turned to see the stringy form of the deputy inspector marching towards them. "You just won't learn, will you Miss Magnus."

"Doctor Magnus," she corrected.

The deputy inched closer to her face, his greasy blonde hair falling in mangled clumps around bottomless eyes. The yellowed skin on his face looked pulled too tight. It stretched over his sharp, protruding cheekbones and the pungent smell of tobacco reeked on his breath. "So we're a doctor now, are we? London really must been loosing its standards." Helen didn't flinch. They held their staring contest a moment longer. With a twist of his finger, the deputy ordered several of his men to grab hold of the prisoners.

Powerful hands yanked Helen's arms behind her back and forced her none to gently to her knees. The Deputy grabbed Helen's chin with his hand. She tried to avert her eyes, but he wretched her face back towards him. "You are quite a nuisance, my dear doctor," He said as he drew a grimy knife from his belt. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

"You won't kill us, we're too valuable," observed James.

"Really?" The slimy, stringy man moved the blade closer to Helen's throat. A horrible chill shook through her body. She could feel the deputy's hot breath and the deadly blade hovering at her neck. What scared her the most, thought, was the hideous, torturous bliss that glittered in the corrupt officers eyes.

"Stop!" ordered Lord Becket. "We have no reason to kill them."

"How many captures have the Magnus's thwarted? How many beasts have they cost you?" the deputy yelled, brandishing the knife wildly in the air.

All he needed to hear was the click, the soft metallic chink of a gun being cocked. The deputy paused as Lord Becket drew a polished revolver from his jacket. "I said stop."

The deputy let his arm fall limply to his side. He stared at his feet, defeated, and took several slow steps away from Helen.

Suddenly he lunged back toward her and swooped the knife to her skin. He tugged on the icy blade, just a bit. Helen could feel a warm trickle of blood snake down her throat. I should have listened.

The rest of Helen's farewell thoughts were cut short by a primal shriek. Every human head turned toward the rows of cages. Euric let out another guttural roar and rammed his stone body against the cage door. The already bowed metal bars groaned under the force. With a final charge, they snapped. Amid the encouraging screams and call of the hundreds other prisoners, Euric pried open the hole in his cage and stepped out onto the floor between Helen and Lord Becket.

Seeing that it could be done, more and more abnormals began fighting against their cages. The noise level rose exponentially as escapes spread out like an earthquake around the epicenter of Euric's cage. A creature that resembled a ball of lightning shattered its glass enclosure with a surge of electricity, then floated gently to the ceiling. Two unicorns pierced their cages and charged onto the floor. Hundreds of even more unbelievable and indescribable beings smashed, stretched, slithered, oozed, burbled, corroded and charged out of their containers.

Lord Becket shivered visibly as Euric stared back at him with those unnaturally green eyes. Never in fifty years of collecting had any of Lord Becket's prized ever escaped. Suddenly, the tubby man felt very, very small.

"You can't take both of us out," he stammered, his voice shaking with fear.

"Really?" Euric teased. He took a menacing step forward.

"Stop!" yelled the deputy. "One more step and she dies."

Euric froze. A flash of fear race through his body. What to do? One wrong step and... he couldn't bring himself to continued the thought. Euric's stony mouth curled into a smile. Judging the terror in the deputy and Lord Becket's eyes, they had no idea how forced it was. As long as it got the affect across. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt him." The stone man lifted his muscular arm and uncurled a giant finger. He just stood there, pointing at Lord Becket.

A clap of thunder echoed through the ballroom. The humans paused in their series of threats, waiting to fall at the slightest touch like deadly dominoes, to search out the windows. Clear blue sky spread out over the lawn and the rest of London.

Slowly, pair after pair of eyes shifted upward, toward the ornate paneled ceiling. A churning blanket of dark gray fog hovered over the room. The cloud of mist wove through crystalline chandeliers as it pushed outward, growing until it hit the walls. The outline of the lightning creature glowed through the haze. With a deafening crack, blue fingers of electricity shot out of the cloud, sensing the air around them. They fizzled out, and another, longer bolt followed the line of Euric's finger, driving right at Lord Becket. He away just in time to avoid becoming part of the black scorch radius now smoldering in his place on the floor.

Their target now identified, the nearest abnormals pounced on their captor. Lord Becket squealed as the enraged creatures scratched, bit and clawed at him. "Help!" he screeched. "Forget about the humans, help me!" The six constables exchanged glances, then released James, Helen and John and charged into the fray.

"Stop those vile creatures!" the deputy snapped at Euric, his knife still at Helen's throat. "Make them stop!"

Euric shrugged, still pointing at Lord Becket. The deputy's eyes narrowed into slits and his thin lip quivered in rage. "Aaaagh!" he cried as he charged at Euric. Helen's lungs filled with air now that the burden of the knife was gone, and promptly lost it again as she watched the blade slip between the pebbles on Euric's chest and plunge into the soft tissue beneath.

"Euric!" Helen screamed. She sprung up to rush over to the fallen creature, but John and James simultaneously caught hold of her arms.

"Helen, we have to go!" said James urgently.

"We can't just leave him!" She struggled harder, but couldn't break their grip.

Euric looked at her from where he had fallen to the ground. Those leafy-green eyes stared back at her, and he shook his head. With all his effort, he rolled his hand to the side, and pointed weakly at the far corner of the room. Another bolt of lighting followed the angle of his hand, and struck the wall. The impact left a smoldering opening plenty big enough for a person to climb through.

James was on his way to their make-shift door. John tugged on her arm again. "Helen," he said.

She glanced back at the burning ballroom, the rampaging abnormals and the ill-equipped cops chasing them down, at Euric's motionless body on the floor. She could help. She could save him. She could save a lot of them.

"Helen," John said softly in a voice that understood the pain of being helpless. She nodded solemnly and followed him out.

The three of them broke into a sprint. They raced over the sloping lawn and scrambled over the menacing wrought iron fence surrounding the perimeter of the estate. The chaos of the ballroom would take several hours to contain, at the very least, so it was improbable they had been followed. Even still, they kept running, dashing through alleyways and taking sharp corners. Their legs finally stopped in one of the poorer boroughs of London, quite a distance away from the Becket estate. Helen, James and John found themselves in front of a tired looking building made of aged gray wood. The structure had very odd shape, as if it have been cobbled together out of older buildings. Wide museum steps, left half-completed after a brief effort to refurbish the place, lead up to a mundane rectangular entrance. Behind that, however, a large circular turret ringed with windows sat half sunk in the roof. To its right, several more sizes of square additions added to the building's peculiar silhouette. The farthest of these boasted large stained glass windows half hidden by an overgrown garden of weeds.

The three of them slumped down on the finished half of the stairs, panting in utter exhaustion as crisp, soot-filled air rushed into their lungs. When they had finally recovered enough to think straight, James and John craned their necks to look around the empty gray street. "Where are we?" James asked, not attempting to hide the disdain in his voice. John shrugged; he didn't know either. Both men looked expectantly at Helen.

She barely registered their presence. The run here had been an adrenaline-fueled blur. Now, as she caught her breath, the images from the mansion flooded back into her mind. Hundreds upon hundreds of abnormals held against their will. A member of parliament and the deputy inspector at Scotland Yard not only aware of the existence of abnormal creatures, but running a ring based on their exploitation. And Euric.

"Helen are you alright?" James asked as she stared at something intangible between them and the other side of the poorly cobbled road.

She touched her fingers gingerly to the dried blood on her neck but whispered, "I've never had someone die for me before," refusing to meet their eyes. She couldn't shake the feeling not only of sadness, but crushing guilt as well. She felt terrible, and John could see it. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"There was nothing you could have done."

"That's not true!" she cried. "I could have helped him; I could have tried, at least tried, to save him."

"And where would that have gotten you, back in the hands of Becket?" James added coldly. John glared at him and shook his head.

"It was his choice Helen. We don't always like the things people do for us, but always remember that they do it because they care," he said gently, in a rare, unguarded moment. She lifted her eyes up off the street to his.

"Euric gave his life so that we could escape and stop Lord Becket," she said in a much stronger voice. "We will."

"I don't doubt it," said John encouragingly. He offered her a handkerchief. Helen went to work wiping away the blood. She cringed each time the cloth struck the open slit, but soon enough all that was left was a thin red line. She tugged the lace on her collar up as high as possible, trying to cover it up.

Helen rose off the steps and gestured toward the building. "I doubt anyone came after us, but just in case, we should be safe here."

"Where are we exactly?" asked James.

"The City of London Municipal Library Annex," Helen replied proudly.

"I had no idea this was even here."

"Few people do," she said. "We should be safe here." She lead them inside.

The air was stale and musty, tinged with the smell of old parchment. Bright sunlight filtered in through mismatched skylights, illuminating columns of dust. Books and scrolls of every shape and color lay scattered about - on tables, on bookshelves, sprawled over the floor, and even covering the rickety staircase that disappeared into the upper story.

A stalky man with a very round head stood at a large blackboard behind the curator's desk; he seemed to be working with some sort of mathematical formula. The tap tap tap of the little stick of chalk echoed throughout the library. As the three guests entered, a little bell chimed over the door, and the librarian nearly jumped out of his skin. The startled little man bumped into a cart full of books, sending them cascading all over the floor.

"Mr. Bellton, I'm so sorry," Helen said as she rushed over to help pick up the books. "We didn't mean to startle you."

"Helen Magnus!" he exclaimed and scampered over to vigorously shake her hand. "What a pleasure. How's your father?"

"Quite well. He's away in Italy this week on business," she replied as she handed him an warn olive volume.

"And who might this be?" he asked, training his perfectly circular eyes on James and John. Oddly, there was no white in his eyes, just black pupils over a startling yellow. Bushy eyebrows and a tangled mustache created a circular pattern around his face. A curved nose drooped almost to his thin lips.

"Misters James Watson and John Druitt. Gentlemen, this is Samuel Bellton, curator of the annex," Helen introduced.

"A pleasure," said the curator as he flitted over to shake their hands as well. "I apologize for the state of the place. I'm afraid I don't get many visitors."

"I see you are working on the Twin Prime Conjecture," said James, nodding at the messy blackboard.

"Yes, just a bit of busy work," said Bellton, flitting away some chalk dusk with this incredibly spindly fingers then attempted to push his round spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose.

"You must be quite intelligent. No matter how many times I've tried, I can't seem to solve it."

"I'm sorry," Helen interrupted. "Did the great James Watson just admit he can't do something?"

James's face crumpled into a frown. "You couldn't solve it either."

"Yes, but I freely admit it," said Helen excitedly.

"Let me know how it comes, young man. Now. What can I do for you three?" Mr. Bellton asked with a smile.

"We were hoping to use the rotunda, if that's alright," said Helen.

"Certainly, certainly," said the curator. He hustled over and cleared a path on the stairs. "I'll be here if you need me."

"Thank you," said Helen as she headed up the narrow staircase. As John followed them up, he could have sworn he saw several feathers fall from Mr. Bellton's jacket.

The rotunda was the circular structure they has seen from the outside. This space was much cleaner than the disaster below. Two aged wooden tables stood on the floor, surrounded by high bookshelves following the curvature of the walls. The only brake in the books, aside from the door behind them, came on the form of five small windows that overlooked the southern part of the city.

"Is it just me, or does the curator look a like..." John began when they shut the door.

"An owl?" James finished, having the same thought. "I know owls have long been connected with knowledge, but this seems a bit cliche."

"What else would you expect a Thothious nolata to look like?" asked Helen. "His species have been the keepers of sacred knowledge since Ancient Egypt."

"He's an abnormal?" asked John.

"Of course."

"How many humanoid abnormals are there in the city?"

Helen smiled playfully. "More than you'd think."

"What exactly are we here to look for?" asked James as he sat down in one of the mismatching chairs. John took a seat at the end of the table while Helen perused the shelves of books. She ran her finger over a particular row until she reached a long leather volume. Helen returned to the table and flipped to a large map of London, smoothing it out with her hands.

James studied the black ink image. "This map is up to date," he said, puzzled. "How can that be when this book is at least fifty years old, probably more."

"The Thothites, as they are more commonly called, have a passion for keeping information current, as well as preserving past history," she explained. Helen flipped back several pages, to show James a map of London as it was thirty years ago.

"How does he do it?" asked John.

"I still have no idea," Helen admitted. "Incredible, isn't it? All the reference material in this room should be current within the last six months."

"Fascinating, but what are you looking for?" said James.

"Anything." said Helen. "We need to understand what is going on, and I haven't the slightest idea of what to do from here."

"We already know what's going on," replied John. "Lord Becket is using poisoned pastries to make humanoid abnormals loose control."

"There are too many holes," said James. Helen nodded in agreement. "So far he hasn't 'collected' any more abnormals from the city."

"Besides, humanoid abnormals are of the least value to him, and the hardest to contain," added Helen.

"Then what does he want with them?" John asked, "and why have us arrested?"

"I have no idea," she replied, then looked hopefully at James. For once she would be grateful if he could see something she didn't.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I haven't a clue."

They fell silent, each turning the random bits of information over in his or her mind. No matter how hard they tried, it was like attempting to make a picture out of two different puzzles. "So we have nothing," Helen stated to no one.

John let his hands fall dejectedly into the pockets on his jacket. To his surprise, his right fingers hit something soft. He was about to make a disgusted face and complain about his ruined coat, when he realized what the gooey mess was. John pulled the smashed up pastry out of his pocket and set the heap of crumbs and filling on the table. "We have this."

"That's a start," said James glumly. John's face fell.

"What would you like us to do?" Helen asked him frustratedly.

"Can't you, I don't know, find out what chemical they're using or something?"

"Why?"

"I'm no expert, but a poison that only affects abnormals isn't something you can buy at the corner store. If we know what it is, perhaps we can track it." said John.

"That actually makes sense," James complimented him.

"Excellent. Do either of you know how to do that?"

Helen and James shared a defeated glance. "No."

"But I think I know someone who can," said James.

"Perfect," said Helen. "Let's go."

Nigel Griffin stood in the kitchen of his modest Stepney apartment, if you could call it that anymore. Racks of test tubes and beakers filled every available surface. Lines ran out from the stove, bringing fuel to several Bunsen burners around the room. Vials of strange-colored liquids and metallic powders filled the shelves originally built for spices; thick leather gloves and glass goggles found a home on a rack for stirring spoons. The enthusiastic college student found paradise in this cook's nightmare.

Looking forward to a quiet Saturday night of chemistry, Nigel tied a stained leather apron around his neck, and slipped the eye goggles over his short brown hair. He put on the gloves and set to work measuring, weighing, pouring and heating all manner of substances. He was in the middle of a very delicate reaction when someone knocked on the door. "Just a minute," he called, and turned back to the reaction. Too late. The concoction suspended over the work flame erupted in a cloud of black smoke. Another knock resounded off the door.

Coughing wildly, Nigel stumbled to the door. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. "Can I help you?" he asked the three disheveled people at his doorstep. He pushed the goggles to his brow, leaving two flesh-toned circles amid the black soot covering his face.

"Nigel Griffin?" asked a man with hawk-like eyes and a black goatee.

"That's...me," he sputtered. "I apologize, I've had a little...mishap." The three of them exchanged skeptical glances. James shrugged.

"You probably don't remember me; we met at the Biochemistry symposium last spring at Oxford," said James. "My name is James Watson, and we have a proposition for you."

"Yes, yes of...course," said chemist. "Do come in." He held the door as his guests filed into the drab little apartment. He waved them into a cluttered living room, then collapsed, coughing, into a warn armchair.

Helen knelt in front of the chemist and examined his pupils. "Do you keep any chemicals here?" she asked, feeling his pulse. Griffin looked around, puzzled.

"She's a doctor," John offered. Watson scowled but held his tongue.

He smiled. "Kitchen."

Helen disappeared into the next room returned minutes later with a spoonful of clear liquid. Griffin studied the syrup, sniffed it, then stuck the spoon in his mouth. The poor man's face screwed up and he clapped his hand over his mouth to avoid spitting out the disgusting bitter medicine. After a few moments of furious blinking, he finally managed to swallow. "That was horrid!" he exclaimed.

"I'm sorry," said Helen, "You had nothing to flavor it. Give it a few moments and you should stop coughing."

He cleared his throat and tapped his chest. Griffin took a triumphant breath in. "Impressive," he praised. James frowned. "Now, how can I be of assistance to you?"

"We were hoping you could analyze this," said James. He waved his hand and John pulled the squashed pastry out of his jacket pocket.

"A cruller? You want me to examine a pastry?"

"This is not an average desert," Helen explained. "Something else has been added to it, a poison of sorts that is causing abnormals all over the city to loose control."

"Poison?" Griffin asked, shocked. "What kind?"

John shuddered. "None of the common ones, that's for sure."

"We were hoping you might be able to identify it," said Helen.

"Yes, well, yes, of course," Griffin stammered, unnerved by the gravity of their request. "Join me in the kitchen and I'll get started right away."

John handed Nigel the pastry, and the young chemist set to work. He divided his subject up; one portion he set in a distilling machine, another over a burner and with the last he made a microscope slide. As he set about testing the pastry, Nigel's guests took a seat around the makeshift laboratory's island and began to discuss their progress and their next move. "Incredible," Nigel breathed as he watched a reaction take place under his microscope.

"Have you found something?" James asked excitedly.

"I'm not entirely sure what I've found," the chemist confessed. "I managed to isolate the foreign substance from the rest of the ingredients, and I must say, I've never seen anything remotely like it."

"So you can't identify it," Helen sighed.

"Not even close."

His guests hung their disheartened heads.

"But I can tell you that this chemical is extremely rare." Griffin explained. "You would need extremely specialized machinery to manufacture something like this."

Helen smiled. "Gentlemen, I believe we can work with that."

"You want to track the machine needed to create the toxin," John observed.

"Can you do that?"

"Yes, Helen, can you?" James asked sarcastically. Whatever this woman's connections, and however strong her determination may be, some things simply cannot be done. She scowled.

"You would do well not to doubt me, James," she advised.

John and Nigel exchanged nervous glances. This was one battle they had no desire to be involved in. "How can you possible find out?" John interjected. Helen held on a moment longer, then broke off her staring contest with James.

"Customs. The Port of London customs authority keeps a log of every item that enters crosses British boarders," Helen explained. "It's improbable that our rouge mechanic could acquire all the materials necessary for such a device here in Britain."

"She's right," John scowled. "As long as we have a vague idea of what this device might be made of, it shouldn't take more than an hour or so to track down."

"Excellent; it's decided then. We leave first thing tomorrow."

"You're not going," said James. Helen's eyes narrowed in angry. He'd just agreed with her and yet he still refused to acknowledge her rights.

"I have to agree," John added cautiously.

"What?"

"Helen, we're already wanted by the police!" John hissed. "You can't just go strolling into a government office when the entire city knows our faces! We won't be so lucky to escape again."

Helen gritted her teeth. "I see your point," she admitted with effort. "But James, if Becket has already issued a warrant on you as well, we're stuck."

"Umm..." said Griffin and he raised his hand a bit. "I'll go. I'm not entirely sure what you three are up to, but I must say you've intrigued me."

"Perfect," said Helen, "thank you."

"I do have one question, though," he continued.

"We have a perfectly reasonable explanation for the arrest warrants," James assured him.

"I'm quite interested to hear it, but that actually wasn't what I was wondering. When you were talking earlier, the three of you kept using the same word. I'm just curious but, what is an abnormal?"

His guests froze. They shot sharp, blaming glances to one another until Helen cleared her throat and said, "Mr. Griffin, it's going to be an interesting night."

~*5*~

Griffin returned late the next morning to find his guests pacing nervously around the flat. At the sound of the door, all three of them quickly migrated to the entryway.

"What did you find?" Helen asked anxiously.

"It took some digging, but I think I've got it. About two months ago, six rolls of heavy grade steel tubing, a copper conductor plate, several pieces of Breton glassware, the only brand in the industry capable of holding class four corrosive compounds, and three spools of wire, and some sort of electric switchboard, among other bits, were shipped to a small warehouse not far from the port."

"And you're sure whoever ordered them built our mystery machine?" James inquired.

"I have no way to be certain, but if I were trying to produce such a chemical, that is exactly where I would start."

"That's good enough for me."

The four of them made their way to the shipping district, getting mixed up in crowds and slinking through dim alleyways, all the time keeping a wary eye out for constables.

"This should be it," Griffin whispered as they rounded the corner of a shabby little gray building sandwiched in between long rows of warehouses and storerooms all towering above it. Bright sunlight glinted off of their corrugated tin roofs and clouds of dirt swirled around the packed-earth streets. Huge rusted iron cranes lingered over the whole area draped like fingers over the docks and storage buildings.

John glanced around the street; none of the sweaty, grit-covered workers milling about seemed to pay them any mind. He ushered his companions into a narrow alley bordering the warehouse.

James crouched, careful not to tarnish his trousers, and peered through a rotted-out hole in one of the wooden boards planking the exterior. "One man," he said in a barely audible whisper.

"Armed?"

"Not as far as I can tell." He watched a pair of polished shoes and freshly presses trousers pace around rickety shelving dotting the floor. They walked to one shelf, disappeared behind the piles of odds and ends it held, pause, and emerged a moment later, heading to the next one as if shopping. The legs vanished behind another shelf, and judging by the clatter of falling metal bits, the arms attached to them deposited their collection onto a worktable of some sort. "He's in the center of the building."

"Alright, but how do we get in?" observed Griffin. John cleared his throat and nodded to the door several meters down the wall. Helen knelt in front of it, inserting a shard of glass and a rusty bit of wire into the key hole. James stormed over as she wiggled the makeshift picks around inside the padlock. He grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her away from the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" he scolded her.

"Excuse me! We were planning on breaking in," Helen hissed in a harsh whisper, then paused. "It's not picking the lock you have a problem with," she realized, "It's me picking the lock that you can't handle. Well I'm sorry, but I came here for answers, and your outdated ideals can't stop me."

"Outdated!" James shouted before he could catch himself.

As the detective dove into a tirade, John tapped gently on the lock. He heard the last tumbler click into place, and held up his hand to James and Helen. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but could the two of you perhaps continue this discussion another time?" He tugged and the padlock unlatched and fell off into his hand. Helen and James exchanged a tense glance, a promise to continue the argument at a later date. "Shall we?" John whispered.

He swung the door open with one strong hand. John expected the hinges to grind and the wood to creak as he applied pressure to the door. Instead the warehouse greeted them with a chasm of ghostly efficiency, as if every part, right down to the door hinges, had been oiled and polished to perfection. The space was not entirely devoid of noise. The sounds of the street, of ships and carts and people, had been replaced with the conversations of cogs and gears as they drove all manner of machinery, and the cry of electricity as it tore through wires and leapt between conductors.

"Excuse me sir, may we have a moment of your time?" Helen asked politely as she stepped into the building. Upon realizing to whom she addressed this question, she immediately regretted her choice of words.

"Well, well, well," cooed a familiar voice.

"Nikola Tesla," Helen spat. The wiry man sat at a round table draped in pristine white linens and poised on the middle of an ornate Persian rug. Shelves stacked with machine parts and whirring gizmos sprawled out around Tesla's little island of formality. The corrugated tin lining the walls cast a bluish glow over the room, with the exception of the inventors workspace. Strings of bright electric bulbs illuminated Tesla's miniature restaurant scene with yellow light. The wires fixed to the ceiling beams all ran back to a large box in the far corner, which sighed a plaintive hum as it generated electricity for his experiments. He typed another sentence into the typewriter in front of him, then threw his hands into the air.

"Helen Magnus!" he exclaimed, not bothering to stand up. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"As in the inventor Nikola Tesla?" Griffin interrupted excitedly. "I'm a huge fan of your work Sir."

"Who's he?" Tesla asked Helen, unimpressed.

"A friend," Helen answered sternly. "This is Mr. Nigel Griffin, a chemistry student at Oxford. He lead us here, actually. By tracking the rare parts needed to build a machine that manufactures poison."

Tesla raised an amused eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied slyly.

"Don't play games with me, Mr. Tesla," Helen warned. "Only a handful of people in the city have the skills to build a machine so advanced."

"Only a handful? Truly, I'm flattered," he replied, and brushed the idea away with a dramatic flourish of his hand.

"This is useless," John muttered, but Helen remained undeterred. She braced her hands on the table and bent to match eye level with Tesla's sitting form. She glared, unblinking, into the his narrow brown eyes and informed him cooly, "I won't ask you again." Finally, the inventor broke off the battle with a roll of his eyes.

"Fine," he admitted reluctantly. "I may have constructed a device that could, potentially, be used to distill a certain chemical and catalyze a certain rather rare reaction, which would, theoretically, produce a substance that is most likely harmful if ingested."

"You mean you built a poison machine," James said with disgust.

"Hey, it can make other things too," Tesla explained. "What my clients do with my technology is out of my hands."

"You're still responsible."

As they talked, Griffin wandered to the nearest set of shelves and began thumbing through a stack of papers. "Could you not touch those?" asked Tesla irritably as he hopped up to shoo Nigel away. He brushed the young man away and slipped a large sheet of paper from the pile. "I believe this is what you're after," he huffed. Tesla laid the tan page on the table for Nigel to study.

Griffin murmured in fascination as he attempted to make sense of the blue ink drawings of the device and its components from every angle. "Do you have any idea what materials were placed here... and here," the chemist asked. He went to lay his finger on the detailed sketch of several compartments, looked up at Nikola, and thought better of it. He settled for pointing to the location in question as he asked.

"What did I just say Junior? Once it's sold I could care less."

Tesla shrugged and made to walk away, when Druitt stepped into his path with one long, fluid stride. "You never got curious? Never overheard anything you shouldn't have?" he asked menacingly.

Tesla glanced around with his wide, frightened eyes, and shook his head 'no.'

"Some help," Nigel muttered as he turned to leave.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Tesla," said Helen as she followed him out.

"Please, call me Nikola," Tesla shouted. John scowled and put a hand on Helen's shoulder. "Wait!" Tesla called after them with a loud snap of his fingers. "I do recall my client mentioning something I thought was strange!"

Helen stopped, and smiled. Then she whipped her expression clear and spun on one heel to face Tesla. She took several steps back towards him and tilted her chin up, waiting for the inventor to continue.

"Something strange indeed, what was it now?" he asked himself. The other three gentleman standing around Helen frowned simultaneously. "Ah yes, cinnamon."

"The spice?" James inquired with even less patience than before.

"I know it sounds odd but I swear that's what I heard. I guess they're processing cinnamon." The last part he said with a little chuckle.

"Cassia," Nigel corrected. "Most commercial cinnamon is actually a plant called cassia. True cinnamon is a coppery red, not the brown bark we're used to."

Helen froze. Her eyes widened as she watched the pieces of information string together in her mind. "Cinnamon," she whispered, then added more loudly, "No he actually means cinnamon. That's why the toxin only affects..." She trailed off. She was about to say 'abnormals' but preferred not to make that mistake more than once in twenty four hours. Apparently it wasn't a problem.

"Abnormals?" Tesla finished her sentence. Four sets of puzzled eyes staring at him asked the question before their owners could put together the words. "Oh yes, I know about them; I am a genius after all."

"Subtle," James groaned in a much louder whisper than he needed to. Nikola grinned.

Nigel half raised his hand. "Refresh my memory."

"True cinnamon comes from the Cinnamon bird - a massive creature that lives on the cliffs of Ceylon. When it molts, it's copper-colored feathers harden an curl into cinnamon sticks," Helen explained. "They use the stick to build nests."

"That's actually kind of disgusting," Griffin commented.

"You may be on to something," said Tesla, ignoring him. "I told my client he was an idiot for insisting on a bronze conductor rod instead of a silver one..."

"Because you couldn't cheat him out of much money?" John interjected.

"That, and because it would barely carry any charge. But if someone were trying to, say, mimic the minute electric charge of living tissue to revive dormant, paralyzed cells..."

"Such as revert cinnamon sticks back into their feather form for biochemical processing..." James continued.

"...It would work like a charm," said Tesla. "Precisely."

"Can you stop it?" John asked.

"As I'm just standing here talking to you people? Yes let me just get my magic wand," he replied snidely. Tesla frowned. "No, I can't do anything without the device in front of me."

"Shutting the device down isn't the solution, not on its own anyway," Helen observed. "We need an antidote for those already infected. The poison doesn't seem to leave the body particularly quickly."

"We don't know that the effects wear off at all," Watson added. Helen shot a nervous glance at John, watching the tension in the muscles of his face. He caught her eyes for a moment, and she could see the fear and self-loathing in them, trying desperately to pull him inside, and away from the world. He broke off the stare to look shamefully at the intricate geometric pattern woven into Tesla's Persian rug. Helen was worried about him, much more than what she was allowing her face to show. The episode back in the alley had drained John, and frightened him. She studied his tall form a moment longer, trying to judge whether he hadn't been showing any symptoms, or had simply been masking them as he had all his life.

"Who did you sell it to?" James asked, waking Helen from her thoughts.

"It's not like I'm selling cookies here," Nikola contended.

"Well actually..." Griffin began.

Tesla took a deep breath and went on, "I don't know his name. We only met once, to finalize the blueprints."

"You don't have any other information we can use to locate this man?" James inquired.

"I have the address I shipped the device to," Nikola explained, "but I doubt it was anything more that a holding area. Here." He strode over to the shelving again, and this time removed the lid of a small wooden box. After thumbing through an upright stack of papers the unmistakable size of telegrams, he plucked a missive, dating back three weeks from the stash and handed it off.

"Or not," James smiled, turning the telegram over in his hand and showing his companions the return address. 118 Charter Street. The Bakery.

"At least we know where it is," Helen noted.

"We must shut it down," said John with more fear and panic in his voice than he intended to let on.

Nigel stood studying Tesla's blue prints, only half-listening to their conversation until he had an opportunity to interject his next thought. "With a sample of the toxin and its base ingredients, there's a good chance I can synthesize an antidote."

"Is there no other way you can accomplish that?" Helen asked.

"I'm afraid not. I need those samples."

Helen smiled. "Well then, there is only one thing for us to do."

The four of them slipped into a tight huddle, talking over their plans to commit a serious crime with nervous excitement. James frowned, trying to convince his cohorts how foolish the idea was. Breaking and entering was just not becoming to their makeshift little group. A sharp "eh-hem" interrupted their discussion. Four heads turned expectantly towards Nikola, leaning back lazily in his chair.

"I hate to break up your little party, but you need me," the quirky inventor informed them.

"I think we can handle your little contraption just fine," said Griffin defensively.

"You're a mechanic now, eh? Then I'm sure you'll have no problem bypassing the phantom circuit, compensating for the amplitude distortions, and resetting the compression parameters so you don't blow the whole machine up," said Tesla with a haughty smile. "Oh and there are constables surrounding the building."

"What?" said Helen, "That's impossible." John strode quickly to a crack in the wall. Sure enough, two officers robed in dark blue uniforms, truncheons strapped to their hips, marched down the street towards them as another pair surveyed the warehouse.

John returned turned to the center of the space and reported his findings. "How did they find us?" he asked when he'd finished.

"Simple," said Nikola. "I called them."

"What?" shouted Helen

"I'd quite down if I were you," Tesla advised. "You don't want the bobbies to hear you."

"Why did you call the cops on us?" John shouted angrily.

"And how?" James asked, far more interested on how Tesla summoned the constables without alerting his guests.

"First of all, you broke into my warehouse," Nikola reminded his guests, who broke eye-contact with him, and shuffled their feet.

"You made a poison machine," James reminded him.

"Fair enough. And I'm actually rather intrigued by your proposition. The problem is, by the time you got down to it, the message had already been sent," said Tesla. He tapped gently on the polished black typewriter sitting before him on the table. "A telegraph machine," he explained.

"Really?" Helen exclaimed.

James bent down to examine the device, and discovered a trove of cables and wires sprouting through a hole in the table. The gray-coated metal strands ran down one leg of the table and under an inconspicuous wrinkle in the carpet, then along the bottom on a row of shelving and vanished through the rickety wall. "It's capable of converting typeface into Morse before transmission."

"Incredible."

"Yes, yes," replied Tesla; he knew. "I truly am sorry; I thought this was going to be fun. But I suppose this is the end of our acquaintance."

James, John and Nigel fanned out across the warehouse, stepping as lightly as possible across the concrete floor. Nigel held his breath with each stride, afraid the echo of his footfalls would bring the bobbies storming in. How had he gotten caught up in something like this? How had any of them for that matter? If he was arrested, it would be the end of his career at Oxford. The more he pondered this fact, the louder his footsteps seemed to become. He so desired to graduate. As panic over this notion was seconds away from encompassing him, the young chemist arrived upon the spot to which James has directed him: a second paneled door at the rear of the building.

Peering out the gap between the door and its frame, Nigel observed the same scene his colleagues were observing on the other sides of the warehouse. Though both appearing calmer in composure, James and John experienced the same knot of fear in their throats as they watch the constables do their work. James, stationed by the door the four visitors had entered through, attempted to quite his pounding heart as he watched to detectives examining the four sets of fresh footprints left in the damp earth by the door. Unnervingly close enough to hear his would-be captors, James heard one of the men observe three men's and one women's shoe prints. All hope he held that they would simply up and leave vanished as the man's partner replied, "And all of them pointing in."

As the three gentlemen observed the responding officers casing the building, Helen pleaded with Nikola. "You're just going to let us be caught?" Helen hissed.

"Look, I'm sorry," he whispered back, "whatever I did pales in comparison to your and Johnny-boy's little stunt. Impersonating the Queen's physician. Yes, I heard. Gave me quite a laugh actually, that anyone would be so foolish."

"I impersonated nothing," Helen argued without much enthusiasm. They had far greater worries at the moment, and frankly, she was tired of the issue. "If I hadn't stepped in, the Queen could be..." She trailed off. For a split second, surprise and realization flashed across her face, the her expression sunk into a horrified stare, directed at Tesla. The deadly stillness of her face made the inventor shift uncomfortably in his chair. "Nikola, if you wanted to get us all out of here, is it possible. You don't need to tell me how, but is it possible."

"What's wrong?" was all he could manage to reply to that face, for something was very clearly wrong.

"Nikola, you poisoned the Queen."

Tesla blanched, as what little color he had drained out of his face. His narrow eyes grew wide, and looked despairingly at Helen. "The Queen is an abnormal?" he asked in a choked whisper. Mistakes rarely bothered Tesla, manly because he didn't make them, at least in his mind. Any crime that could wipe the smirk off of Nikola Tesla had to be enormous. Treason fell on that list. Helen nodded solemnly. "But..."

"If Scotland Yard finds out about your device, they'll hang you, and they'll look no further for the real culprit."

"That's comforting," he replied meekly, staring absently at the concrete floor.

Studying the irksome little man's obvious despondency, Helen couldn't help pitying him. Behind his cocky mask, Tesla wasn't as hollow as she'd thought. "Here's the deal," Helen explained, "You help us and we help you. If you can get us out of here, we can clear all of our names."

"Alright," he said weakly. Then, gathering as much muster as he could, added, "I have an idea."

~*5*~

Three loud bangs vibrated through the flimsy wooden door. The five fugitives exchanged nervous glances. As strong as each attempted to be, as hardened as his or her expression was, none could keep the fear from glimmering in their eyes. As they scurried around preparing their escape, the true weight of the predicament settled on five sets of weary shoulders. Being caught meant prison, meant hanging for treason.

Helen couldn't help thinking of her father. What would he think of her? Until now, she had been fairly certain he would respect, or at least accept, the mess she'd gotten into. After all, she was trying to help someone. Gregory had driven that point into her mind more than any other: "We help those who need it, we help those who no one else can." He always seemed to have a grace about him; she could never imagine him involved in something like this. Mistakes: acceptable, perhaps. But arrest warrants? Police officers? Treason? Dr. Magnus would be so ashamed.

Again, three sharp knocks rapped off the door, forcing Helen to bury her conflicted emotions and focus. "Metropolitan Police Force!" boomed a deep, forceful voice. Silence. "By order of the Metropolitan Police Force, OPEN THIS DOOR!"

A chill shot through Helen's spine that she couldn't quite suppress. In their cramped hiding space, John, James and Nikola felt her shiver. John and Nikola, the closest to her, both put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She shrugged them off. All of her focus centered on Nigel, standing in front of Nikola's worktable. The young man blotted perspiration from his brow with a rag. "Did he just..." Nikola began in a whisper, although his view was partially obstructed by the large black panels they were crouched behind. Propped against the back wall, the sheets of steel formed a crawl space against the wall big enough to shield the four fugitives from view. From her position in the front of the line, Helen had the only full view of the room.

"No, Nikola, he didn't touch anything of yours," Helen lied.

"Hush, both of you," James instructed. They obeyed, laying silently in wait of the police. They didn't have to wait long.

With a massive crash, the side door came cascaded to the ground. A split second later, and the back door crashed in inches from Helen's toes. Two burly officers came barreling through the opening, one shoulder raised, after their respective door. They each worked to come to a stop as dust and splinters of wood rained around them.

A mass of men in blue uniforms flooded through the new points of entry, brandishing truncheons, pointing firearms, and shouting "Everyone put their hands in the air!" As quickly as it had come, the chaos died away, leaving the policemen frozen in their attack-ready stance. Weapons lowered slightly as fifteen very confused men studied the scene before them.

"What's the hold up?" boomed a voice from the back of the crowd. A tall thick man in a highly adored uniform made his way through the crowd blocking the main door. He had a gruff leathery face that sported a long white mustache. The stern image of his giant fists and powerful physical form contrasted deeply with the grandfatherly feel given off by his hazel-flecked green eyes. "What's this?" he asked, pulling a fat cigar from his chapped lips to study the scene before him.

The Chief Inspector of the 12th Precinct had been expecting at least four people, possibly more, rushing around in a frenzy, attempting to escape the building, or at least startled by their arrival. Instead, he stood staring at a single man, a young man preoccupied with a chemistry set. He stood at a table in the center of the room, on a beautiful Persian rug. Shelved radiated out around his little island, filled mainly with machine parts, and electric light bulbs hummed overhead, but all eyes remained on the young man.

Eerie green liquid churned in a round-bottomed flask set over a burner. Each bubble that formed in it turned an bright yellow before popping in a cloud of noxious gas. A different substance trickled through a spiral of distilling wires, a drip periodically falling into the green flask. Elsewhere on the table, more beakers and flasks bubbled, solids fizzed and dissolved, creating a very chaotic scene.

"Evening officers," a sweaty and focused Nigel Griffin greeted the policemen surrounding him.

"Son, I'm not entirely sure what you're doing there, but we have a few questions we'd like you to answer," said the Chief.

"Gladly, sir if you could just give me a moment," Griffin answered nervously. "You see my name is Nigel Griffin, I'm a chemistry student at Oxford..." He fervently adjusted several knobs, added a pinch of something to the green liquid, then continued. "A friend of mine, acquaintance really, lent he his warehouse for the week so I could conduct a rather dangerous experiment..." Again, Griffin adjusted the concoctions, this time turning the flask a dangerous red. He winced and cursed and manipulated the dials until it returned to green. "I'm afraid it's gotten rather out of hand. My professor warned me about this, I should have listened," he grumbled more to himself. "I heard you fellows knocking, but you see if I leave this reaction unattended, there is a good chance it will combust. Violently." Griffin watched many of the officers shifting uncomfortably.

The Chief looked stunned and more than a little concerned. He took a step back and said, "My goodness, buy all means lad, carry on."

"Thank you, Sir, it shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

"What's this?" asked a raspy voice that rose from behind the crowd. A stringy man in an even more decorated uniform made his way forward. Perhaps it was the man's odd appearance, with one shoulder higher than the other, but Nigel suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. The Chief explained the situation to the newcomer, who smiled. "They're here," he scoffed, "tear the place apart!"

The officers hesitated, looking towards their respected Chief Inspector. The old man didn't agree, but the order came from the Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, there was nothing he could do but nod. His men rushed forward, ransacking the warehouse. Two officers drove for Nigel, who quickly snatched a magnet off of the flask before having his arms wrenched painfully behind his back by one of the men. They didn't arrest him, just held him arms firmly, should they need to do so in the near future. "Could we back away a little?" Griffin asked them, genuinely nervous at being held so close to the workbench. The two constables eyes the white bubbles fizzing in the center of the flask and yelled "Cover!" as they dove to the hard cement floor, taking Nigel with them. Though the impact hurt, he was thankful they had listened.

Seconds later, as the rest of the men followed the same maneuver, the workbench erupted in a ball of fire, showering the room in bits of glass. With his face to the floor, Nigel couldn't help smiling. It was a trick he'd used at school, using two halves of a magnet to create chemical reactions. Place one half of a magnet inside the mouth of the flask, and hold it there with and opposing magnet. Then balance whatever substance you want added to the flask on in inside magnet. When you pulled the outer magnet away, usually with a string to stay a safe distance away, the magnet and whatever chemicals it held fell into the flask. Griffin wrapped his hand tighter around the little magnet, and his smile widened even more.

"Get up!" the Deputy screamed. "Find them!"

"Find who?" Nigel muttered to himself for effect.

When the stunned officers were slow to move, the Deputy himself took over the search. He kicked over boxes and tossed items off the shelves, looking for some sign of the rascals, the Magnus girl and her friends. They were here, or they had been recently, he could smell it. Blind to the unnerved gazes of the police force he commanded, the Deputy paced the room. His eyes caught on two large black panels leaning against the back wall, or, more specifically, the space behind them; a space large enough for, he estimated, several people to hide. He marched to the panels and stood before them, taking a deep breath to calm his excitement. The Deputy tore down the panels, which landed on the floor with a hard thwack, but the refugees in its shadow had long since fled its sanctuary. The deputy let out a furious screech.

"Am I free to go?" Griffin asked his guards.

~*5*~

As the Police smashed through the door, all four of the fugitives jumped. The door crashed down inches from Helen's toes, sending a cloud of dust behind the panels. They scrunched as far back as possible and the constables stormed in. Helen buried herself in John's dark coat, so the light color of her dress or her blonde hair didn't catch an eye. Trying desperately not to cough on the dust, they waited until the last officer came through the door, then dashed outside. With nothing to block their view, they relied on Nigel's distraction to give James and John time to hoist open the heavy iron manhole cover in the alley behind the building. They then slipped down into the sewer below while Helen and Nikola hastily erased their footprints. John helped Helen down and Nikola followed.

"I hope Nigel's alright," said Helen.

"Really? I'm more worried about us," said Tesla irritably, "This is absolutely disgusting." He eyed the sewer walls around him and cringed. The misshapen bricks were coated in slime, and John had to stoop to keep from hitting his head on the low ceiling. It was dark except for a single candle James was using to lead the way, which was probably for the best. Although this particular tunnel was almost entirely out of use, they found themselves at times ankle-deep in wastewater.

"Left!" James announced. The group followed his candle-lit silhouette around a tight and slimy corner. They wound through the sewer tunnels without a word, the cramped black tunnels forcing silence upon them. An unspoken burden lifted from the group when James finally called "Stop!" He and John pushed the metal cover away and the four fugitives hoisted themselves hastily up to the surface. They remained quiet, relishing the air and the sun on their faces until Nigel's voice broke the silence.

"You people smell disgusting," he said hanging his head out a window of the Magnus's guest house. "How'd you know you'd be able to get up here though?"

Helen looked around the tight alley that ran behind her house. "Escape through the sewer system is one of the safety protocols in place for the guest house. I presume this manhole may even have been a factor in my father's decision to buy the two houses - just in case."

"Clever," said Nigel.

"Yes, yes your father's brilliant," Tesla said impatiently.

"Have you even met Gregory?" James asked him skeptically.

"No, but can we please move on to more pressing matters," whined Nikola.

John smiled, amused. "He means his wardrobe, doesn't he?"

"I certainly do! I can't even stand to look at myself."

"That makes two of us."

"Three," added Watson.

They all looked expectantly at Nigel, who threw his hands innocently up in the air. "I'm staying out of this."

"Gentlemen, please," Helen scolded, though she was smiling too. "John, if you would direct them to the spare clothes. . ." He nodded. ". . . I'll meet you in the sitting room."

Freshly clothed, the five fugitives took their places around the Magnus's sitting room. With the heavy curtains drawn, the glow of several oil lamps lit the space.

"There hasn't been any police activity since I arrived," Griffin reported, taking peek out behind the drapes.

"Good," said James, "I guess they've assumed we wouldn't return here."

"Still, let's continue to use the guest house door in the daytime, just for appearance's sake," suggested Helen.

"Sorry, I'm still a bit fuzzy on all this," said Nigel. "Can we recap what we know so far?"

"The new bakery is causing any abnormal who eats their pastries to loose his or her marbles," said James.

"Because of the machine I created," Tesla added miserably. He would not do well in prison.

Helen paused, turning the bits of information over in her mind. "Somehow it involves Lord Becket and the Deputy Inspector, though the two of them didn't quite seem to be seeing eye to eye. Regardless, the only way to stop them, and to synthesize an antidote to the poison, is to break into the bakery. And here's how we're going to do it."

The five stayed up plotting and planning well into the night. Even still, Helen woke well before dawn; she had never been one for sleeping. She dressed quietly, expecting the four men to be asleep in the guest house. Helen was contemplating how to occupy herself for the next several hours, until the agreed upon departure time, when she heard a noise from the first floor. She opened her door and turned her ear to the hallway. Voices, four familiar voices, wafted up the stairwell. Helen gritted her teeth; he wouldn't. She walked quietly out of her room, and paused halfway down the dark staircase. In the hallway below, her four companions hurried to pack their bags of supplies by lantern light, conversing only in soft whispers, so as not to wake her up.

"You bastard," she said, her voice seeming much louder in the dim silence. The men jumped, but she kept her angry gaze trained on Watson. "You were going to leave without me."

"We still are," he replied, unfazed. James heaved his pack onto his shoulder and turned coldly toward the door. The other three hesitated, fumbling with their things. Helen stormed down through them and grabbed James by the arm.

"You bastard," she said again, her voice seething with anger.

"Really, Helen, that language does not become you," he warned.

"What am I going to have to do to prove myself to you?" she shouted. "These past few days haven't been enough?"

"There isn't anything you can do to prove yourself. You're a woman. You'll get in our way and you'll get yourself hurt."

Helen swung herself between James and the door. "Yes clearly I've been a hinderance to you. And if one of us gets hurt, whether it's me or it's you, we both took the same risk, made the same choice to put ourselves in danger. You need me, I'm coming."

"Absolutely not."

"You have no authority tell me what I can and cannot do, James." She let go of his arm and threw her hands out wide. "If you want to stop me, then hit me, knock me out."

They stood there, holding each other's gaze for a long time, until finally James sneered, "Fine." She stepped away from the door, and he left. Nigel and Nikola followed uneasily behind him.

"Helen," John called as she stepped towards the door.

"Not now John," Helen said testily, "I don't want to hear it." She made to leave but he grabbed her hand and swung her back to face him. In the meager light of the early morning sky, Helen could just make out a wide smile across John's face. "What?"

"You're a very strong young woman, Helen. I admire that."

His compliment made her heart flutter, but only for a moment. She couldn't let herself believe him. "You were still going to go without me," she pointed out bitterly. "You don't want me to come any more that James does."

"I don't want to see you get hurt, I. . ." he trailed off, then gave her hand a tight squeeze. "Be safe, Helen."

In the darkness of the hallway, Helen felt for a moment like the rules of propriety, the ones she cared for, couldn't see her any more than James could outside on the dark street. As she reached up and pressed her lips to John's, she regarded all the rules as much as she regarded the one that said she couldn't be a doctor. Her heels came back to the floor and she squeezed his hand in return, then lead him out of the house and to the others waiting by the street.

They began to move in silence. Helen was grateful no one could see her smile in the dim morning light. For the most part, they were alone on the streets. None of the few people out at this hour paid the small group any mind. The journey was slow on foot, but drew far less attention. By the time they reached the bakery, the morning sun had pierced the horizon. James held up his hand to stop them on the corner facing their target. The five observed the building in silence. No sign of movement. "May I suggest that we put aside any personal feelings until this is over?" James asked the group, though it was clear who he was addressing.

"Agreed," Helen whispered with a nod of her head. No need to complicate this any further.

They moved swiftly across the street. Shopkeepers arrived to open their stores for the day, the commercial districts would not remain desolate for long.

"These guys are clever, I'll give them that," said Nikola as he surveyed the door.

"What is it?" asked Watson. "You can't pick the lock?"

"That's not the problem, at least not by itself." Nikola gestured through the polished glass panels in the door. "See those two metal boxes inset into the door frame? The one on the left is transmitting a signal to the one of the right. If anything interrupts the circuit, like the door opening, my guess is that alarm bell on the wall will sound."

"Your guess," John chuckled.

Helen ignored the comment. "How did it not sound on the owners?" she asked.

"The key to that padlock must somehow neutralize the device."

"You sound rather bitter about this contraption," John observed, "Is it yours?"

Tesla frowned. "No, and that's far worse."

"How so?" asked Griffin.

"I don't know that I can turn it off."

"Well you'd better start trying," James warned. "The sun is coming up."

Nikola slung his bag off of his shoulder and set to work. James swiftly picked the padlock as Nikola pried at the metal box with a thin pair of pliers. "There," said Tesla, making several adjustments.

"Are you sure?" asked Helen suspiciously.

"Do you actually want him to answer to that?" John replied, and pulled open the door. Everyone held their breath as they listened for the alarm, but it didn't come.

"Nice work, Nikola," said Helen as they filed in. He beamed a mischievous smile.

Empty of customers, the bakery seemed much larger. Ten tables were spread across the already scuffed pine floor. Their wanted posters were back up on the bulletin board. "We have our agreement? John will remain here and guard the door, and James and I will search for evidence of the motive behind this is while Nikola and Nigel create an antidote and disable the machine," said Helen. Everyone nodded their approval. "Let's work as quickly as possible."

Leaving John at his post, the other four ducked behind the counter. Passed the pastry rack spotted with yesterday's leftovers, a hallway, off-limits to patrons, opened and ran short length of the building. The door to what appeared to be an office stood ajar halfway down the hall. "As good a place to start as any," Helen mused. She and John entered the tiny room, leaving Nikola and Nigel heading for the kitchen.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Nigel asked as they passed through the empty door frame that lead to the bakery's kitchen. A polished wooden counter wrapped around two walls, a wide brick oven left its cold iron mouth gaping open in the back. Burlap sacks of flour leaned limply against a wall. On an island counter in the middle of the space, sat huge metallic contraption. "Never mind."

Nikola flipped a switch on it, and the roughly cube-shaped device hummed as gears and cogs whirred to life inside it.

"First I'll need a sample of the pure toxin," Griffin instructed. Nikola took a nearby vial and placed it under a small spigot. He turned a knob, and the vial filled with rosy liquid. "Excellent." Nigel opened his own pack and retrieved his portable microscope. He carefully screwed all of the disassembled pieces together. "This is incredible," he said, gazing down at the slide.

"I'm sure," Nikola quipped, "Now let the big boys do their work." He pulled a screwdriver out of his own pack and dove at his machine.

Helen sighed. The office was tiny and cluttered. Stacks of papers covered the desk, packed the shelves, filled the draws. "This could take longer than we expected."

"Let's be diligent," Watson replied quickly. Tension from the morning's argument still hung thickly in the air. As the pair sifted through the stacks of newsprint and handwritten missives, they carefully danced around each other, constantly avoiding one another's eyes. Helen wanted to confront him again, to hear the rebuttal James had swallowed back at the house, but she clenched her teeth and focused on the mess before her.

"Helen," James called. Urgency replaced all trace of malice in his voice. Helen spun to see James crouching on the floor next to a box draped in a large sheet of red cloth. James pulled the bunch in his fist, and the sheet fluttered to the ground.

"Dear god," Helen whispered. A Cinnamon Bird crouched pathetically in a cage too small for its shimmering metallic body. Large patches of umber colored skin shown where clumps of feathers had been mercilessly wrenched from the creature's flesh. "This is absolutely appalling."

"We know where he's getting so much cinnamon," James said softly.

"Help me open the cage."

"Helen is that wise? What if he attacks us?"

"Cinnamon birds are usually docile and quite intelligent," Helen explained. "According to my father's stories, they have a keen sense of friend and foe." She pried at the latch until it came loose. James held the door back as Helen reached in to retrieve the bird. To her surprise, it shrunk down to the size of the cage door and waddled right out into her palms.

"Incredible," Watson mused as he cleared off the desk. When she placed it down, it grew again, to a size Helen could easily work on.

"Oh no," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"I don't have any of my supplies. In my. . .haste. . .to leave, I didn't pack a bag," Helen said, disheartened. Why did something always have to go wrong when she was trying to help? Now what could she do?

James reached into his own bag. When his fingers touched a warn leather case, he paused. He looked at the injured creature on the table, its eyes darting back and fourth between him and Helen, pleading for their help, and Helen desperately searching her mind for some way to assist. "Here," James said quietly as he passed her the medical kit. "I figured I might need it, but I. . ." She could see the agony in his face as he reluctantly forced out the words of praise. "You're the expert here." Helen thanked him softly as she took the leather case, but inside she was reveling in the moment. Those words were all the best apology she could have asked for.

Helen unrolled the medical case and selected a long curved needle. "Keep searching through the papers, if you would," Helen instructed James. "I'll try to stitch up the largest wounds, but we still need to find out the greater motive behind this operation. Something's off."

"I agree," said James as he turned back to the shelves of articles. "Something about this just doesn't fit."

John paced anxiously in front of the counter. He flicked open his pocket watch, then scanned the street through the large glass windows. Those four had better hurry up. Owners were beginning to arrive at the neighboring buildings, preparing for the business day ahead. Who knows when the bakery owners would be. . . A knot twisted up in John's stomach as a brilliant black carriage with a familiar crest brushed on polished door came to a halt in front of the bakery. "We have a problem!" he shouted back to his companions. Helen, James, Nikola and Nigel all froze at their tasks.

". . . The Deputy promised me that bird!" huffed a tubby little man in a black tailcoat as he dismounted the carriage. "He's had it quite long enough. If his little plot hasn't succeeded by now. . ." Lord Becket explained to his two massive body guards as he mindlessly opened the bakery door. "Now what have we here?" Becket asked as his eyes caught John. "You again. Are you two little friends with you? Here to steal my newest collectable?"

"What?" John asked before he could stop himself.

Lord Becket shrugged off the comment. "No matter. Kill him." His two body guards hurled themselves at John, who crouched low, bracing for the attack. The first guard reached him, and John heaved him to the side. The guard smashed into the nearest table with a loud crack. John turned too late, the second guard was already upon him. John shouted in pain as the second guard threw him into the counter.

"John!" Helen screamed from the office.

Druitt hoisted himself groggily to his feet. "Hurry up!" he grunted back as he smacked one of the men in the throat.

"We need more time!" came Nikola's voice from the kitchen. Both of the men came at John at once; together they picked him up and heaved him over the counter. Wooden rods holding the bakery baskets snapped and splintered as Druitt's body smashed into them. He hit the ground with an ominous thud as day old sweets rained around him. John could feel warm blood dripping down his neck and back. His vision had split, but he could see the two muscly guards regrouping, ready to hop the counter and finish him off. He had to give the others more time. He was outnumbered, he needed to be stronger. As he tried desperately to stand, John's hand hit one of the pastries that had fallen around him. He considered the lemon cruller for a moment, and then tore off a large bit with his teeth before he could change his mind.

The guards hesitated a moment, puzzled as to why their opponent would be stopping for a snack. John watched them carefully. Just a moment more, he willed them. Each time he had been exposed to the poison, his reaction had been exponentially stronger, and faster, so hopefully. . . The two thugs jumped back as an orange burst of lightning arched over John's body. Druitt smiled a twisted smile and he stood with new strength. The guards seemed unsure what to do, so John launched himself at them. He kicked the first one in the gut. The other guard lunged for John from behind. John barely considered what he was doing. He imagined himself behind his attacker, and then he was. John drove his elbow down on the other man's spine. With the two guards down for the moment, John turned his menacing form toward Lord Becket, cowering by the door. John cocked his head toward the Collector and gave him a twisted grin. The round little man shrieked and ran out the door with a jump.

"Sounds like quite a party," Nigel observed as he adjusted one of the machine's gear shafts.

"You want to go out there and join the fray?" Tesla commented over the hum of the machine and the sporadic thuds and thwacks of the fight taking place in the foyer. "Then at least you'd be out of my way."

"Excuse me," Nigel remarked sarcastically. "It's because of my chemistry skills that we knew how to create an antidote."

"And it's thanks to my genius that we knew how to reverse the machine, and we now have a sizable supply of the cure," Nikola reminded him. The cranky genius turned the tap and filled another bottle with the clear chemical now being manufactured by the machine. "Here, cap this off," Tesla ordered.

"Why am I your lab assistant?" Griffin asked irritably. "I'm just as valuable to this project as you are."

"That's debatable, Junior." Tesla smirked and he adjusted the machine again.

"Stop calling me that!" Nigel demanded. "I'm practically the same age as you."

"And yet I'm a genius, and you're what? A chemist what hasn't even graduated from school yet. Genius wins."

"I hate to burst your bubble all mighty Tesla, but your calibration settings are terrible," Griffin boasted. "I wasn't going to point it out because I thought I'd be nice, but I've changed my mind." Nigel pulled off a metal panel from the side of the machine and adjusted several components with the tip of his screwdriver. Instantly, the machine's loud humming quieted to a barely audible buzz. Tesla's face screwed up like he'd just bitten into rotten fruit.

"You're just jealous of my talent," he said hauntilly. Nikola pulled out a pair of tweezers and rearranged several wires.

"You're threatened by me because I'm almost as smart as you," Griffin replied, pulling off another panel and twisting several bolts.

"Almost. You said it yourself," Tesla quipped and he tweaked a gear.

"Too close for comfort," said Nigel with a grin as he adjusted the power flow.

The two scientists turned to face each other, waiting for the other to flinch. They both jumped as a loud clang echoed from the machine, the another. "Is it supposed to be heating up like that?" Griffin asked nervously, placing his hand over the opening.

"No," said Tesla, equally wide-eyes.

Nigel studied the other man's face. "Oh, don't tell me . . ." he groaned.

"Yup, it's going to blow," said Tesla frantically. "I'll collect what antidote we have. Go warn the others." Nigel nodded. "One minute, thirty seconds and counting!" Nikola yelled down the hall after him.

Nigel skidded to a halt in front of the office door. "The machine's going to blow!"

"What?" shouted Helen, still stitching up the Cinnamon bird. "How long?"

"Just over a minute," Griffin sputtered. He opened his mouth to ask what exactly they were doing with a metal bird, but thought better of it.

"James, take the bird. Nigel go find John," Helen ordered. Nigel sprinted towards the front of the store. James picked up the bird gingerly. It wrapped its golden talons gently around his forearms. He slung his pack over his shoulder and hurried for the door. In the hall, he paused.

"Helen, come on. What are you doing?" he asked urgently. Helen was still busy scurrying through the desk draws, the one place they had yet to look.

"I need to understand this!" she shouted over the increasing clamor of Tesla's device building up energy in the kitchen behind them.

"Thirty seconds!" Griffin yelled from the storefront.

"Then take it with you!" James said, "We need to move." Helen scooped up a pile of papers and a old book from the bottom draws of the desk, then followed him to the front of the store. Tables were strewn all over the floor, chairs were broken, the food racks shattered, and the counter bloodied. In the middle of it, Nigel was trying to lift John from the rubble. Helen tucked the papers beneath her arm and ran to help. Even together, they could barely lift John's six foot frame.

"Fifteen seconds!" called Tesla, waiting with James outside the door.

"Go!" Helen ordered them. They hesitated, but ran on. "Come on, John," she whispered in his ear. "No matter what you're seeing in your head, keep running." The pair ran as fast as they could, but it was clear that with John barely licid, they weren't going to make it to James and Nikola, still fifty yards away. "Run, Nigel," Helen told him.

"I'm not going to leave you," he insisted.

"Now!" The urgency in her voice made him leap away, and sprint toward the others. Helen couldn't move supporting John's weigh on her own. Instead she knelt down on the cobblestones and gently tapped his cheek.

"What is she doing?" Nikola yelled from their place outside the blast radius. "They'll be killed!"

James simply held up his hand. "Wait for it."

The bakery exploded in a fiery ball of energy. The sonic wave made James, Nigel and Nikola toter on their feet. When they could safely open their eyes again, James immediately wheeled around, turning his back on the smoldering remains of the bakery. He shook his head. "That was foolish."

Helen smiled back. "It worked."

"Wait," said Griffin, looking from the bakery to Helen and John on the cobbles behind them. "What? Did he just. . ? I think you folks may have left out a page of the story."

"He . . ." Helen began but John cut her off.

"I prefer not to talk about is," he said weakly. Orange and purple sparks still arched over his skin. "Doctor Magnus, if you please." He sat up and held out a bruised arm to her. Helen retrieved a syringe from the medical kit as Tesla handed her one of the vials. She filled it partway with the clear liquid and flicked it with her finger before injecting the antidote into John's vein. The electricity around him dimmed, them cut out completely.

"How do you feel?" Helen asked.

"Marvelous."

Helen turned and nodded to Nikola and Nigel. "Excellent work gentlemen." She looked back at John. "You still need treatment for you wounds from the fight."

"It can wait."

"Very well."

"Now," James suggested, "we should leave before the bobbies arrive."

"Agreed," said Nikola. Nigel helped support John as they made their way back to the Magnus house.

"No, seriously. What just happened?" Nigel asked after a minute. James chuckled, acknowledging his superiority. Nigel immediately frowned. Of course Watson got it. James knew everything.

"Lord Becket's toxin amplified the abnormal traits in its victims' genetic code to the point where each person lost control of their abilities." Helen explained. "In some cases it caused the abnormal traits to surface all together." She flashed a look at John. "Your antidote deactivated the toxin."

Watson clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I wasn't affected by the toxin, so I have no abnormalities."

John scowled. Helen smiled. "Actually James, I believe every person has the biological potential to be abnormal. It would take a substance ten times the strength of those pastries to bring out any type of change in a 'normal' human being."

"Still, I think I'm in the clear," said James. "I doubt we'll ever run into a potion that nasty, right Helen?

She didn't answer. Helen was musing through the papers she had grabbed as they walked.

"Is everything alright Helen?" James asked her. The copper bird still perched on his arm tilted its head to one side, then let out a shrill scream and took of into the sky.

Helen followed it with her eyes until the Cinnamon bird was out of sight. "I feel like we've missed something," she frowned, "Like we've overlooked a fact starring us right in the face. The pieces simply don't fit together."

"I agree," said James. "We though Lord Becket was leading this little operation, but according to John, he was only helping in exchange for the bird. That means the Deputy Inspector orchestrated it, but why? What does he gain out of exposing abnormals?"

"You didn't get it either," Nigel muttered. James ignored the comment.

Helen flipped the page in the Deputy's journal and froze. "It was never about exposing abnormals, we jumped to that conclusion."

"Why are we jumping back?" Tesla asked irritably.

"He wanted to make them sick." With that Helen dropped the journal to the ground and sprinted down the street.

Helen ran as fast as she could, all the time following the copper bird circling in the sky like a hawk. She bursted out of an alleyway facing her front stoop, and skidded to a terrified halt. An icy jolt of fear and panic burst through her veins as Helen observed the scene before her. The twisted, stringy form of Deputy inspector stood twenty paces down the street, with a handgun trained on her father.

"Father!" Helen choked, fear squeezing her throat.

"Helen get out of here!" Gregory shouted.

"I won't let you leave me, not again!" she cried. James and Nikola skidded up behind her, with John and Nigel following close behind.

"Helen, what's going on?" James asked, throughly confounded.

"What's going on indeed," the Deputy sneered. The synchronized clomp of the constables' boots echoed off the rows of housed as twelves officers marched into view. "Detain the four men, leave the girl to me," he ordered them. Four officers with emotionless faces wrenched James, John, Nikola and Nigel's arms roughly behind their backs and forced them to there knees. The other eight men formed a circular perimeter around the scene. Helen turned to half of them.

"You must know this is wrong!" she shouted to the constables. "Your Deputy is corrupt. He's using his influence to act outside the law."

"It's useless, stupid girl," said the Deputy calmly. "Watch your tongue or you'll be detained with you friends."

"He's after revenge!" Helen shouted.

The Deputy turned to her and smiled a disgusting, broken-toothed grin. "You're on to something there darling. I tell you Gregory, she's a smart one."

"Revenge for what?" Gregory asked as calmly as possible. "If you are going to shoot me, I have a right to know why."

"Look at me!" the Deputy screamed, keeping the gun steadily on Gregory's head. "You did this to me! You made me the way I am! And you still don't remember me. How . . . civilized of you to have so cleanly forgotten your crimes."

Dr. Magnus glanced at Helen. "Ceylon," she explained. "He's the poacher that the Cinnamon bird knocked off the cliff. He survived. He blames you for the fall, and his disfigurement because of it. My guess it he's been plotting this for quite some time now, working his way up the ladder until he had the influence to get the job done. The Deputy figured out how to create a poison from the feathers of the cinnamon bird. That's why he needed our friend here." Helen pointed to the copper bird circling over them. It let out a shrill shriek. "He offered it to Lord Becket, a collector of rare abnormals, in exchange for financing his plot. He opened a bakery then laced all the food this the poison. This toxin, when ingested, would cause any abnormal's power to grow until they could no longer control it. Until they needed a doctor. He wanted to lure you out around the city so he could extract his revenge. Unfortunately, he got me instead."

"I said shut your mouth!" the Deputy screamed. "Unless you'd like to be next." He waived the gun at Helen until she nodded solemnly, then trained it back on Gregory.

"Can that be true?" one of the guards mused to himself.

"Sir, if you would kindly check the journal sitting on the cobbles to my left, I believe you'll have your answer," James instructed him, relieved he had thought to grab it before running after Helen. The constable fished for the journal with his boot. He dragged it over and found the pages Helen had seen: the plot, the toxin formula, it was all there. He nodded silently to the other guards.

"It's over!" screamed the Deputy, his wiry body shaking with a dangerous mix of hatred and excitement. "It's time you paid."

Everyone jumped at the crack of a gun discharging.

Helen held her breath. She could barely comprehend what had just happened.

The Deputy fell to his knees, arms clutching his chest. Helen stood facing him squarely, her revolver trained on him, it's barrel still smoking. The Deputy looked at his shaking, bloodied hands. He let out a furious scream and collapsed.

Gregory's muscles relaxed now that the gun was gone. He went to walk to his daughter, but James reached her first.

"Bloody Hell!" he screamed at her. "How long have you been carrying that around? Being a doctor isn't bad enough? Now you've got to play with men's toys too?"

Gregory held up his hand. "That's enough, Mr. Watson. We will discuss this at a later date."

"Actually Sir, we still have take the lady into custody," the nearest constable interrupted. "With that book for evidence, it's safe to say she won't do time, but we do have to take her back to Scotland Yard." The mood of the group fell as they realized what the victory would cost Helen. Only the young doctor herself remained smiling.

"What have you got up you sleeve?" Gregory asked mischievously. Helen reached down an plucked a folded piece of parchment from her boot.

"I think you'll find the situation already sorted out," she said as she handed the constable the note.

"A full pardon from the Queen," the bewildered young lad announced. "I. . . well. . . I suppose this means we're done here." He shrugged and lead his equally astonished comrades down the street and out of sight.

The Cinnamon bird shrieked again and swooped down to land on Gregory's forearm. "It sounds like you have quite a story to tell me Helen."

"I certainly do, Father," Helen replied, "but first I have something to finish. Nikola?" He handed her the case of antidote vials. "Thank you, all four of you. I am in your debt."

"Or we in yours, as the case may be," John said with a smile.

"Until next time, Doctors Magnus," said James to the pair.

The quiet afternoon of administering the antidote came as a welcome relief to from the last few hectic days. Still, as Helen approached Buckingham Palace, her last stop of the evening, she couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness. That little group, the five of them, had a special sort of chemistry, an understanding of each other even if they didn't get along. She would miss that. She already did.

The palace guards admitted Helen immediately, much to the chagrin of the Prime Minister. Apparently he hadn't quite gotten over her and John's little trick.

John. Even as she administered the Queen's shot, she couldn't stop thinking about John. How she may never see him again.

"I know that look," said Queen Victoria, examining her fully human form in a hand mirror. "A normal life isn't sounding so bad right now, is it dear? I'm sure the man you're thinking about would agree."

"How did you. . ?" but she stopped.

"Although," the Queen continued. "you'll be welcome in the abnormal world for as long as you like. We are truly honored to have people like you and your father. I am in your debt Helen Magnus. If you ever need my assistance, I would be happy to help."

"Thank you, You're Majesty, I will keep that in mind."

~*5*~

"Helen, I have a surprise for you," Gregory told her one day shortly after, closing the office door behind him. Helen picked her head up from the medical journal she was reading. Her father tended to be mysterious and sometimes downright cryptic with gifts, so blatantly telling her he had a surprise made Helen suspicious.

"Is the new shipment of Scarab fossils here already?" she joked.

"Watch you sass young lady," Gregory scolded, but he smiled. "Actually, Helen, I've been thinking about the work that we do here. It seems to be leading us in several different directions, more than we can realistically devote enough focus and energy to. Which is why I've been thinking of splitting our work up."

"And what will you do, Father?" Helen asked, placing the journal in a pile on the desk and standing to join him.

"A project I've been dreaming of for quite some time now, but I've never had the time to execute."

"The Sanctuary Project," she continued for him. She'd heard her father talk of this for many years, about place where all abnormal creatures would be safe, and the world safe from them. "I'm thrilled we're finally going to start it."

"Actually, Helen, I was thinking you might be headed on a slightly different path, and herein lies the surprise. We have a duel duty: to protect abnormals, and to learn from them, to increase our knowledge of the world around us."

"So while you're running the Sanctuary, you want me to study the world?" she joked, puzzled but intrigued.

"I was thinking of forming a group, a small group dedicated to expanding our knowledge of the physical world, through abnormal research and other scientific means."

"And you want me in that group."

"If it interests you."

"Certainly!" she said betraying her true excitement. "But, are you sure you can find others who will accept my participation?"

"I believe I already have. One of them might be a little stubborn, but he'll come around." Helen's eyes glowed with joy. Gregory could tell she'd caught on. "As a matter of fact, the four of them are waiting downstairs right now."

"Thank you Father," Helen squealed before rushing out of the office.

"Helen, Helen wait," Gregory said as caught her in the hallway. "There are a few minor details I'm afraid you may be unhappy with."

She listened to him carefully, and then nodded. "I understand."

Gregory smiled. "Now go."

James, John, Nikola and Nigel stood waiting for her in the parlor. They greeted each other excitedly before Gregory returned to give them the final details.

"Please, take a seat," Dr. Magnus instructed. The five of them took their places in the center of the parlor, much the same way as the Minds had done on that first night young Helen had met them. "The five of you are to be a covert group, dedicated to pressing the boundaries of science. Though no one of you is to have any more than his or her fair share of power, the official leader of the group is Mr. Watson." Helen bit her lip, but said nothing. "I've arranged for you to have a fully equipped laboratory on the Oxford campus. You each have a key. Gentlemen, you've also been enrolled as students. Mr. Griffin, your stay had been extended." He turned to his daughter. "Helen, I'm sorry. I had hoped to find a loophole somewhere but. . ."

"It's alright Father," she said quietly, then paused. "I think I may have a solution to that. We'll see."

"Very well. You can journey to Oxford tonight if you please, to get acquainted with you new home."

"Excellent. Thank you Dr. Magnus," said James.

"Shall we?" Tesla asked, gesturing lavishly towards the door.

"You four go along," said Helen. "I have a stop I'd like to make first.

~*5*~

"Honestly dear, I didn't think you'd come to collect on that favor so soon."

"Neither did I, You're Majesty, but I can't think of a better way to use it," Helen told her. It was wonderful to see the Queen up and about again. Today they met not in the Queen's chambers, but in a lavish sitting room.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Magnus?" asked Queen Victoria.

"Oxford," said Helen bluntly.

The Queen's cheerful expression drooped to a regretful frown. "Helen there are some things even I can't do. Some rules I just can't bend. Forcefully enrolling you in Oxford University would cause political and cultural turmoil I can't even imagine."

Helen stared down at the cream colored carpet. "I understand," she mumbled, trying to keep her voice steady. Helen had so hoped this would work. It struck her as funny if nothing else, that her greatest dream couldn't even be arranged by the Queen.

"But," Victoria's soft voice startled her. Helen looked up to meet her eyes. "I believe I could arrange for you to audit any courses you like. When you've finished, provided you've completed all of the required work at an acceptable level, I believe I can arrange a doctorate degree for you."

Helen swore her heart stopped. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me."

~*5*~

Helen met the four men in a grassy courtyard framed by large stone buildings. "According to Gregory's directions, it should be in that building, third floor," James said as he pointed to the large stone facade in front of them. They entered and climbed a polished stone stairwell to the top floor of the building. A single door greeted them at the top of the landing. Nigel took his key and swung it open.

"Incredible," someone breathed as they gazed into the laboratory bathed in light from the setting sun. The pristine space ran almost the entire length of the building. Cabinets filled with supplies ran along the back wall. A blackboard sat perched on it's swivel, waiting to be written on. A state-of-the-art chemistry set sprawled over two wooden tables out on the tiles. Enormous glass windows rose from the floor, overlooking the courtyard. The group reverently stepped into their new space. Helen could already see the great discoveries that would be made here. Tesla flipped a switch on the wall and a series of electric lightbulbs sparked to life on the ceiling. A generator much like the one back at the Tesla's warehouse hummed away in the far corner, and Nikola didn't even have a snide comment. The laboratory revealed even more of its splendor in the bright artificial light.

"Your father really out did himself," Nigel said to Helen.

"He certainly did," she marveled. The five of them meandered farther into the room, peaking into cabinets and opening draws. "Let's make him proud."

"But first a toast," said Nikola, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of thin air.

Helen shook her head. "I'm not going to ask where that came from."

"I'd love to, but I believe you forgot the glasses," John pointed out.

Nigel opened up a cabinet and raised his eyebrows. "This will do." He selected five mismatching flasks and beakers and placed them on the counter in front of Nikola, who doled out healthy shots of whiskey.

"Pick a glass and it's yours," Nigel instructed. "We'll set them aside for next time." Everyone selected their shape of glassware.

"Cheers," said Nikola quickly, about to throw back his own. James pulled his hand back down.

"What are we toasting to?" he asked.

"To us, to our little party," Nikola answered as if it was common knowledge.

"Then we at least need a name," Helen pointed out. "The five of us need something to call ourselves."

"How about that," John suggested, "The Five."

"I like it," said James. "To the Five."

The other four raised their beakers and chorused back: "To the Five."


End file.
